


Where the Lightning Splits the Sea

by thepopeisdope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Dean/Cas Pinefest 2019, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Pining, References to Drinking Drugs and Parties, Seattle, Superhero Castiel, Superhero Dean Winchester, Two Person Love Triangle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 68,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: Seattle’s hero never fails to live up to his given nickname. Like an angel, he appears when he’s needed most, a miracle when none is expected; he gets in quick, then gets out quicker, and like the angel he is, he goes off to perform his miracles elsewhere, often without any link between one miracle and the next, aside from the fact that he shows up when someone needs help.That’s how Dean met him, after all. The Angel is the only reason he’s alive.And that’s also why Dean is more than a little bit in love with him.But when the Angel is suddenly defeated, Dean’s world turns on its head. His city is in a vacuum, heroless for the first time in years, and to make Dean’s life even harder, his roommate has turned quiet, withdrawn. Dean doesn’t know what happened to make Cas’ mood swing so drastically, but he wants nothing more than to see him happy again. Dean owes the Angel a debt. Choosing between the two isn’t an easy thing to do.When the Hunter is born, the balance becomes nearly impossible to keep up.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Y ' A L L
> 
> I have been sitting on this fic for so, so long, and I am so unbelievably excited to finally be able to share it. I utterly destroyed myself back in November to get it to the 50k mark during NaNoWriMo, and now here it is clocking in at nearly 70k. It's absolutely wild, and considering this is now my favorite fic I've ever written... I'm so proud of it. 
> 
> As a Pinefest fic, I was unbelievably lucky to have been paired with [Delicious-Irony](https://delicious-irony.tumblr.com/), who is such an incredibly talented artist that I could honestly cry. She made some wonderful pieces for this fic, as well as the banner and section divider, and I love each of them with all of my heart. Her art is also available [**here**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932235). 
> 
> Finally, I have some people I need to thank: [Ari](https://willowywings.tumblr.com/), my official beta, [Grace](http://marsmonkeyx.tumblr.com/), my cheerleader, [Jess](https://ilovetodreamx.tumblr.com/), for putting up with my last-minute panicking, and [Grace #2](https://hhoneycas.tumblr.com/), for giving me some Seattle input that quite literally saved this fic. Y'all are great, and I love you. <3 
> 
> (Quick content notes: rated M for language and mentions of violence, but really, just to be safe. Also, to those who care, the lack of a Cas/other tag on this fic is very much accurate, despite how things look.)
> 
> Now, without further ado: 
> 
> Enjoy.

 

**_Two Years Ago_ **

 

“Dean, do you even know where we’re going?” Sam asks for what must be at least the fourth time. It grates just as much as it did with the first few repetitions, and Dean grits his teeth.

“We’re getting there, Sammy. Have a bit more faith in me, will you?”

It’s false bravado, of course, but what’s his alternative? Admit that they’re woefully lost? Not a chance.

From the way Sam sighs, Dean suspects that his brother sees right through him. Not that it matters; Dean is the one calling the shots and leading them through the darkened streets of Seattle, and that means that Sam is going to follow him until they either find the drive-in they were meant to be headed toward or find their way back to Dean’s dorm.

Admittedly, Dean knows that this isn’t turning out to be the ideal weekend for Sam. Since Dean started college halfway across the country from their hometown, they haven’t had any other opportunities to see each other outside of a Skype screen. It seemed like a damn miracle when their Uncle Bobby called to tell Dean that he was paying to fly Sam out for a visit only a couple months into the quarter—a tactic to stop _both_ of his adoptive sons’ whining, it seemed—and Dean was more than happy to play host for a weekend.

But as always, the universe decides to be cruel at the most inopportune times. Most of the Thursday of Sam’s arrival was lost to desperate studying for a late-quarter midterm, and Friday was sunk for the same reason. By the time Dean wrestled his way through the comp sci test (which was an exercise in misery, to say the least; what kind of programming class only has paper tests?), he was too mentally exhausted to commit to more than takeout teriyaki and video games on his dorm room’s small TV.

Sam, ever the good brother, assured Dean repeatedly that he was more than happy to be spending time with him no matter what it was they were doing and promised that he’d had a good time exploring Dean’s school’s campus while Dean was studying, but that didn’t actually make Dean feel any better. He only gets a handful of days with his favorite person on the planet, and he’ll be _damned_ if he doesn’t make the most of them.

Which is how they came to be here. Wandering through the University District of a city Dean barely knows, with only street lights to see by and the smell of rain wafting in on the wind. The plan had been to get burgers and shakes from Dick’s, then hit a movie at the AMC on the way back toward campus; Dean had made the exact same route with his new friend Charlie only a couple weeks ago, a halfway-through-our-first-quarter-of-college celebration.

He’d had a blast then, and he _should_ be having a blast now. And the path had seemed so simple that night with Charlie, all straight roads with minimal turns. What kind of Seattle-local magic had she worked to make that happen? Surely Dean should be able to replicate it?

They stop at an intersection and wait for the light to change so that they can cross yet another street, maybe-probably in the wrong direction. It’s not very late, but they’re near enough to a residential area that there aren’t many people out and about anymore. Only a few cars pass their corner before the crosswalk indicator changes, essentially reinforcing the fact that wherever it is that they are, they’re essentially out here alone.

As they cross the street, Sam grumbles, “Told you we shouldn’t’ve left our phones at your place.”

Dean scowls at him. “We’re _bonding_. Without technology. Shut up.”

“Worst idea _ever_.”

“Yeah, I _know_ , Sam.”

Dean turns them to the right, which is where he suspects there might be a larger, more central road to help them orient themselves. They don’t make it more than half a block before it starts to rain. It starts with a couple of light drops which Dean can feel landing across his cheeks, but quickly advances to a drizzle, and then a solid downpour soon after. Dean pulls Sam along to stand under an eve as it picks up, and watches morosely as the last of his hopes for the night are extinguished.

He lets his head drop between his shoulders. “Son of a bitch.”

Sam laughs and claps him on the back. “Come on, Dean, it’s not a big deal. Let’s just take another right up here, and I think that should get us back toward campus. I’m sure we can find something to eat over there, and maybe we can just rent a movie from the library and call it a night. We can find this burger place before I fly home tomorrow.”

Defeat washes through Dean. He forces himself to nod. “Yeah, okay. You can, uh. Try leading the way. I’ll follow you.”

Sam nods, pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt, and sets off through the rain, leaving Dean in a rush to keep up with him. Dean isn’t lucky enough to have a hood of his own, since he’s an idiot who decided a crewneck would be a good idea, but that only encourages him to move faster. His ears are already cold, and his hair is plastered to his head; the only thing that he can be glad for is that his little brother is at least a bit more sheltered.

They run for a couple blocks, and then Sam comes to an abrupt stop. His black, Lawrence High sweatshirt was already difficult to pick out of the night before it became darkened by rain, but now Dean stands no chance. He nearly knocks Sam over when he crashes into him, which earns him a much-deserved glare.

“I think I know where we are,” Sam explains once he’s steady on his feet. His hood is now thoroughly drenched, and hangs heavily over his eyes. He pushes it up and peers down an alleyway to their left. “I think if we cut up through here, we should get back to the main road that runs past the north side of the campus. What was that? 45th?”

Dean licks his lips and gets a mouthful of rain for his efforts. He can’t really see to the other end of the alley well enough to be sure that they’re going to come out on the right road, but—“Sure, let’s go for it. Not like we can get any more lost than we already are, anyway.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Sam shoots back. He grins as he says it, though, so Dean smacks his shoulder, and then they’re off again, hustling through the alleyway. It’s riddled with puddles, and even through the downpour, there’s a mixed stench of urine and weed, seemingly ingrained in the cement beneath their feet.

Seattle is so, _so_ different from Lawrence.

Not that that’s a bad thing, of course. Dean’s kind of in love with his new home. Even if he’s horrifically lost in it.

Halfway down the alleyway, Sam stops in place yet again, and yet again, Dean practically barrels into him. In his effort to prevent a full collision, he throws himself back so forcefully that he slips on the wet pavement and falls on his ass.

Sam doesn’t turn. Dean glares up at his back. “What the fuck, Sam—”

“ _Dean_.”

His brother’s voice is filled with panic, and in an instant, it chills Dean to the bone. He scrambles his way off of the wet ground and up to his feet. It isn’t until he’s standing even with Sam that he can see what has him so scared.

There’s a man in front of them. Unremarkable clothes, a hat that conceals most of his face, and skin that’s so pale that he looks almost sickly beneath his greasy, overgrown beard.

Dean takes all of it in on instinct, but at the same time, he can feel himself going blind to a lot of the little details. The same panic that he’d heard when Sam said his name is now seeping into Dean’s own core, because the man in front of them is holding a gun, and he looks more than ready to use it.

Dean subtly pulls Sam backwards by his sweatshirt, easing himself ahead so that he can take the brunt of the man’s attention. “Heya, pal.” His voice threatens to waver, so he clears his throat. “Is there… something we can do for you?”

The man flicks the gun in their direction, a gesture that doesn’t actually mean much, but scares Dean witless regardless. “Gimme your wallets. And your phones.”

Dean makes a point of flashing his empty palms toward the guy before he reaches for his back pocket. He fishes his wallet out and tosses it onto the ground at their mugger’s feet. He keeps his other hand locked on the back of Sam’s sweatshirt all the while, and urges him back even further. “That’s all we’ve got. He’s just a kid, and we’ve got no phones. Take it and leave, okay?”

“No phones?” The man barks an ugly laugh and advances a step. He stoops down to fish Dean’s wallet out of the puddle it landed in and then blindly shoves it into his own pocket, his gun never wavering from where it’s aimed at Dean’s chest. “You expect me to believe that bullshit? Hand ‘em over before I get tired of asking and pull this trigger.”

“No, I—I _swear_ ,” Dean pleads. There’s so much rain in his face that he almost feels like he can’t see, can’t _breathe_ , and it’s all only made worse by the fear coursing through his veins. His heart is in his throat, and the only real thing he can think about is the gun in front of him, his brother behind him, and the very limited distance between the two. “We’re just lost and trying to get back to the school, we didn’t bring our phones, so please, man, I already gave you everything—”

The guy’s mouth twists into a scowl. “Guess we’re doing this the hard way, then.”

Two things happen in the exact same moment.

The mugger pulls the trigger on his gun.

And a bolt of lightning crashes down from the sky to strike the pavement right at the man’s feet, seemingly going through his outstretched hand to get there.

The man shouts in pain and lets the gun fall from his crippled hand, but while the lightning threw a wrench in his murder attempt, the bullet he fired still grazes Dean’s shoulder. It’s a hell of a lot better than the shot going into his chest, the rational part of his mind immediately has to concede, but it hurts like a _bitch_ , and he barely stays on his feet while he grasps at it.

“Dean!” Sam cries, lurching forward to catch him before that ‘staying on his feet’ thing can change. Dean is too busy gasping for breath to object or even really notice. He’s never had a reason to go into shock before, but he’s sure that that’s what he can feel clawing at his mind, because _Jesus_ , he’s been _shot_.

Still, though, shot or not, when he manages to raise his eyes again, he very nearly chokes on his own tongue at the sight that awaits him.

There’s someone else in the alley, now, directly between Dean and Sam and their would-be murderer. He’s near Dean’s height, similarly sized, and dressed in a black body suit that covers every inch of his skin. The night seems to cling to him, shrouding him in more than his fair share of darkness and making him nearly impossible to look directly at. He looms over the mugger, who gapes up from where he’s crumpled to the ground in pain. The guy’s hat was knocked away at some point, leaving his wide, bloodshot eyes exposed, and the fear in them clear for anyone to see.

“You—What the _fuck_ —”

The newcomer makes a sound not unlike a growl, and the mugger promptly chokes on his words. Another bolt of lightning flashes, then, hitting the roof of one of the buildings beside them and momentarily casting the alleyway in a blinding light. In that brief instant, the darkness around the newcomer is given definition.

The shadows around him aren’t just clinging to him, they’re part of him. Inky black splotches hang between his shoulders, mostly visible for the shadows they cast in the wake of the lightning.

They look like _wings_.

They’re no longer quite as visible after the lightning has passed, but now that Dean knows to look for them, he thinks he can still make out their general shape. The rain bends and distorts around them, contorting to fall past the unknowable, incorporeal void-space. It boggles Dean’s mind, so much so that he almost misses the growling words the man is now speaking to the mugger.

“Firing that gun was a mistake. Return this man’s wallet before I fry you where you stand.”

The mugger nods frantically, and digs Dean’s wallet back out of his pocket with shaking hands. He tosses it back in their direction, past the newcomer.

Dean, still holding tight to the gash on his arm, doesn’t know how the hell to react. He stares at his wallet, then at the mugger, then at the back of the newcomer’s head. Eventually, he whispers, “Sam, grab it.”

His brother makes a quick dash forward to do just that, then promptly returns to Dean’s side.

At that point, Dean has the abrupt, crystal-clear insight that they should leave. They should take advantage of both of these strangers’ distracted states and run, get the hell back to a populated area, find a phone, call the police. He’s already been shot at, and there’s likely nothing better to come from sticking around, because what’s happening in front of them goes far beyond the limited role either Dean or Sam play in the world.

Because whatever this is he’s witnessing, whatever the _thing_ standing in his defense is—this isn’t stuff that’s supposed to happen in everyday life.

But despite that instinct, Dean’s too enthralled too move. The warping of the rain at the suited-man’s back, the fact that he appeared out of nowhere to save his life… There’s no way Dean could leave even if he wanted to. Not without seeing this to its end, not without knowing more.

Suit guy turns his head just slightly to the side, giving Dean his first glimpse of a face that’s nearly as covered as the rest of him. The same black material that wraps around his body conceals his forehead and nose, and swoops low over his cheeks. All that is exposed is his mouth and his eyes—not that Dean can see them from where he’s standing.  

“Thank you,” he tells the mugger in that overly-deep, rumbling voice. “For that, I’ll make sure you don’t suffer too much. Prison should be good for you.”

The darkness shifts around him as he reaches forward. The mugger screams and starts trying to scramble backwards, but the guy in the suit is faster. He presses his hand against the mugger’s forehead, and sparks of electricity run down the surface of his suit to transfer directly across the mugger’s skull. His eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps to the ground.

The alleyway is entirely too silent in the aftermath. Dean stares, a new sort of fear now gripping him. The electricity that the man had wielded looked suspiciously similar to the flashes of lightning they’ve seen, but that—it can’t be—

Sam tugs on the sleeve of Dean’s uninjured arm and says in the loudest whisper imaginable, “Dean, we gotta go. _Now_.”

The sound of his voice draws the suited man’s attention. He turns away from the limp—unconscious? Dead?—mugger and stares at them with an unreadable expression. It’s too dark to see much beyond the general contrast between his skin and his suit, but his eyes practically glow, like lightning in a bottle.

Sam pulls on Dean with more intent. Dean is too caught in that electric stare to fully notice.

The guy’s head tips slightly to the side, and his electric gaze slides down to the spot Dean is still holding on his upper arm. It’s too dark and raining far too much to be able to see the damage, but he’s sure his once-grey crewneck is soaked through with blood. He can feel it beneath his fingers.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Dean gulps.

He doesn’t trust himself to nod, but blurts out instead, “Thank you. You saved my life.”

It’s hard to tell with any kind of certainty, but based on the way those bright eyes move, Dean suspects that the guy is… surprised? Not that Dean can fathom why; not ten minutes ago, he was staring down the barrel of a gun, the fate of his and his brother’s lives hanging in the balance. And now—

“Thank you,” he says again, and finally lets himself be pulled backwards a few steps along with Sam’s urging. Stupidly, he adds on, “I owe you one.”

The guy blinks a few times, then very clearly looks toward Sam. “Get him to a hospital,” he instructs. “Head east. Call an emergency vehicle if you have to.”

Sam nods, and pushes Dean the rest of the way out of the alleyway. Dean stares the whole way out. Just before they round the corner, he sees the guy in the suit turn back to the mugger. He reaches down to grab him by the front of his shirt, and lifts him effortlessly. The darkness swells around him, shifts upward and out, and then he launches up into the air and disappears from sight.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mumbles, and then Sam is back to pushing him, and the alleyway disappears from sight.

After that, the rest of the night passes in a blur. Sam somehow manages to call the police, who then get them to the hospital and take their (Sam’s) statements on the events that they claim transpired. Dean has to get a few stitches for the wound on his arm, but even that doesn’t pull him all the way back to reality. It isn’t until he and Sam are collapsing back into his small, one-bed dormitory in the early hours of the next morning that Dean fully becomes aware of himself again.

And when he does, there’s one realization in his mind that stands out from any others, crystal-clear and razor-sharp.

He’s never going to forget those shadowy not-quite-wings and lightning-bright eyes.


	2. The Angel

 

**_Present Day_ **

 

Dean’s lead is a tenuous thing. So tenuous, in fact, that he hardly even wants to acknowledge its existence for fear of jinxing it all together. He can see someone coming up in his peripheral vision, but doesn’t dare look for long enough to determine who it is.

Jo and Charlie are shouting incomprehensibly. Benny is chanting, “ _Fuck fuck shit_ ,” on a loop, a mantra that Dean both wholly understands and completely relates to.

God, his palms are sweating, and if Dean fucks this up _now_ —

He takes a sharp left, then a right. He nearly misses his drift, but catches it at the last second and boosts onto the straightaway. He’s close, now, just a few more curving turns away from his victory. All he needs to do is hold out for a little bit longer.

 _Just a little bit longer_.

The finish line comes into view, hazy in the distance. Dean holds steady despite the aching in his wrists, his trigger finger twitching.

He’s so close.

“Oh, and the gods have spoken!” Charlie suddenly cries, while Jo laughs at her side. The words fill Dean with dread; he grinds his teeth together as he continues to hurtle forward, stubbornly refusing to be intimidated.

Because damnit, he can _win this_.

He only gets a brief, flashing warning before the red shell appears, but when it does, Dean is ready. He throws his green shell backwards just when the red one becomes visible, and the two explode on contact.

Dean crows in celebration, “Ha! Can’t stop me now, Bradbury! I’m on a—”

And then the second red shell hits him. Dean spins out mere yards from the finish line, coins erupting from him. His stomach drops.

“No no no, come on!”

He recovers as quickly as he can, but he instinctively knows that it’s useless. He knows that Charlie is on him. He’s still in first when he starts to drive again, but his momentum is gone, and the short distance left between himself and the finish line suddenly seems like miles. He rolls forward a few more feet before the final red shell hits, finishing out the trio and sending Dean spinning once again.

This time, Rosalina whips past him, kart-checking him off the main track as she goes. Dean makes a pitiful sound as he fights to recover once again, while the finish line sound effect bursts out of the TV’s speakers to herald Charlie’s win.

Dean can still take second. If he can pull second, he can still have enough points to beat—

Donkey Kong bursts forward on a mushroom, colliding with Dean and knocking him out of the finish line’s path just as he was on the brink of recovering. The sound effect plays again.

Then, adding insult to injury, an NPC whips past him, too.

By the time Dean finally drags himself across the checkered line, he’s in a firm fourth place. Benny is laughing loudly, while Jo seems to be even happier with Charlie’s victory than Charlie herself is.

And just like that, Dean’s fate is sealed. The final scoreboard only confirms what he already knew was coming.

Rosalina sits at the top of the point list, Donkey Kong a few points below, and then only a single point beneath that…

Bowser Jr., loser of the Flower Cup.

Dean grumbles obscenities under his breath, but does as he’s supposed to and hands his controller off to Jo. He slumps back against the couch to watch the next cup play out, very much _not_ pouting, thank you very much. They bump back to the character selection screen so that Jo can change Bowser Jr. out for her preferred Princess Daisy (because she and Charlie are the gross kind of couple who like to play as characters who look like each other, equating Charlie with Daisy and Jo with Rosalina), and Benny gets them set up for their next set of races.

Dean drops his chin to rest in his palm and continues to not-pout. Goddamn red turtle shell bullshit. He’ll have to do better next time.

And be absolutely ruthless in kicking Charlie’s ass.

Charlie, speak of the devil, chooses that moment to roll her head back against the couch and look up at Dean, sitting above her. Dean automatically glares back down at her, bracing for the gloating he knows is coming.

“Maybe we should start putting money on these tournaments—”

“Fuck off, Charlie.”

“I’d be rich as hell, could you imagine? I wouldn’t even need to be a barista anymore!”

“You couldn’t scam _that_ much off me off of Mario Kart alone, shut your damn mouth.”

“That inheritance money of yours could be _mine_.”

The look in Charlie’s eyes can only really be described as bloodlust. Despite the fact that he’s still the butt of the joke, Dean has to snort a laugh. He swats lightly at Charlie’s head, messing up the perfect way her red hair had been laying.

“That _inheritance_ is the only money I have to keep myself alive, doofus. If you think I’d bet any portion of it on _anything_ , video games or not, you’re crazier than I thought.”

Charlie frantically combs her fingers through her hair and glares. “Maybe if I just get you drunk first—”

“Not happening.”

Charlie turns back toward the TV with a pout. She grumbles under her breath for a moment—Dean thinks he hears her say something about him having a _trust-fund roommate, anyway_ —but turns back around before long. Benny is distracted by his phone and Jo has followed his lead, so they have a few more moments before the next races start. Charlie, clearly taking advantage of that, gives him a calculating look from her place on the floor.

“So, where’s Cas tonight?”

“Cas, uh.” Dean wets his lips and, for lack of anything better to do, starts fidgeting with the left sleeve of his flannel, adjusting the way it’s rolled around his elbow. Of course Charlie segued them into a subject that’s even touchier than inheritance or Mario Kart defeats. “He’s at Balthazar’s. Like usual. ‘Studying’, probably. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I heard that a bunch of art students were throwing a kegger, so. You know.”

Charlie frowns, then gives Dean a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry.”

Dean just grunts in answer. He doesn’t want to talk about Cas, as Charlie surely knows. He picks up his phone as an excuse to end the conversation, and Charlie turns back around just in time for her first race against Jo and Benny to begin. The three of them quickly become absorbed by the game; they’re quiet at the start of each race, when their concentration is highest, but they steadily grow louder as they begin hitting each other with items and inevitably start trash talking.

Dean listens to it with half an ear, but for the most part, Charlie’s question still has him distracted. He scrolls idly through his Twitter feed in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but nothing he sees holds much substance, so he ends up thinking anyway.

Truth be told, he hates that Cas hangs out with Balthazar as much as he does. Sure, Balthazar seems like he might be a fine enough guy, but he’s a terrible influence on Cas. The _worst_ kind of influence, in fact.

Because of Cas’ two best friends, it’s clearly not _Dean_ who enables his partying habits.

Dean has been friends with Cas since freshman year, and since they’re now in the first quarter of their junior year, he likes to think that that length of time is significant. Dean’s first quarter at UW was a mess for a number of reasons, only one of which was his near-murder in that alleyway. His second quarter took a sharp turn in the opposite direction, though, because during his first class of the day, a cute guy with dark hair and some of the bluest eyes he’s ever seen (not quite _the_ , there will always be one pair that supersedes them) sat down in the seat beside his in the lecture hall. They didn’t really have a chance to speak aside from a _hey_ and a _hello_ , but Dean had spent the following fifty minutes mesmerized nonetheless.

And then the guy sat by Dean again in his second class. And again in his third.

So of course, Dean _had_ to talk to him at that point, because while he wasn’t sure if having the same schedule as someone who looked like _that_ was a blessing or a curse, it was definitely a sign from the universe, no matter which way it was spun.

Dean had then used that chance to turn to the guy and say, lips quirked into a crooked grin, “You’re not stalking me, are you, buddy?”

To which Cas had turned pale and begun stammering out an apologetic insistence that it was merely a coincidence, and that he’d sat next to Dean again after the first time because, well, he noticed him and simply felt like he _should_ —

Overall, it was an endearing display. Cas calmed down once Dean assured him he was joking about the stalking thing, and once the awkwardness of that passed, they actually managed to hit it off, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.

Well. Inseparable save for Cas’ tendency to miss classes, flake out on plans at the last minute, and sometimes disappear to his longtime friend’s (and probably _boyfriend_ ’s) place for hours without warning.

It’s entirely possible that Cas just likes Balthazar more than he likes Dean. Or, likes him _differently_. And Dean’s not jealous of that fact. Really, he isn’t. Although he’s never gotten the full story on how Cas and Balthazar first met, he knows that they were childhood friends. That holds a different sort of sway than a two-year friendship does.

But sometimes it just… stings.

(Okay, maybe he’s a _little_ jealous.)

At that moment, the sound of a key slotting into the lock in the front door cuts off Dean’s internal moping. He twists to look over the back of the couch toward the entryway, and makes a vain attempt not to look like an excited puppy when its owner finally comes home as Cas lets himself into their apartment. (Dean swears, Cas always seems to show up right when he has been thinking about him. The number of times he’s almost blurted out, _were your ears burning?_ during situations just like this is too embarrassingly high to count.)

The first thing Dean notices, though, is that Cas looks like hell. The bags under his eyes are practically a staple, but they seem darker than usual, making his exhaustion clear to see. His hair is wilder than normal, too, and combined with the loose, grey sweatpants and generic purple ‘Washington’ hoodie hanging off of his shoulders… It’s not terribly difficult to guess what kind of Saturday Cas has been having so far.

Maybe he _wasn’t_ at that art kegger, then. Just with Balthazar.

Dean’s excitement at seeing him begins to fade, something sour settling into his stomach. He purses his lips. “Dude, are you hungover?”

Cas doesn’t seem to fully notice his surroundings until Dean speaks. He’s already made it to the edge of the living room by the time he freezes in place, his eyes darting rapidly between Jo, Charlie, and Benny, all of whom are still engrossed in their game, before finally landing on Dean. “What’s going on?”

And there goes the last of Dean’s positivity. He tries not to feel disappointed as he answers, “Dude. It’s the fifteenth. Mario night.” At Cas’ blank look, he sighs and adds, “You came with when it was in Charlie and Jo’s dorm, month before last. It was our turn to host tonight, I reminded you a few days ago.”

“Oh.” Cas’ expression twitches in the way that Dean knows means he’s still confused, yet is making his best effort to adjust to the new information being thrown his way. He shifts in place, fingers clenching around the strap of the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “I… suppose I didn’t realize what day it is.”

Before Dean can figure out how to respond to that, Charlie, Jo, and Benny finish their final race. Benny throws his hands up and shouts in victory, Jo laughs, and Charlie shouts incomprehensible insults at them both. Dean turns back around just in time to see the final scorecard come up; Daisy at the top, Donkey Kong is in second, and just a hair behind that, Rosalina. Explains Charlie’s rage, then. Dean grins.

“Cas, Charlie just got bumped. You want in on this action?”

“Oh, I, um—” Cas comes closer, his bag sliding off of his shoulder to hit the floor with a heavy _thud_ before he perches on the arm of the couch next to Dean. Up this close, Dean can feel the warmth that radiates off of him. He smells like smoke and the calm before a storm. “Perhaps I will just watch this next round. You know I’m not much good at… racing. I prefer Mario Party.”

Jo and Charlie both turn to look at him from their spots on the floor, matching, wicked grins on their faces. “You sure, Cas?” Jo asks, offering up her own controller despite the fact that it should be Charlie’s turn to swap. “I’ll even let you play against the two losers, here. Dean can sub in, too, and then you’ll _really_ have a shot at winning.”

Benny laughs. “Oh, I’m down for that. No better way for me to get my first win of the night, right?”

Dean scowls at him. “You ain’t beating me, Lafitte, not again. You only got me in that last one because you got _lucky_.”

Benny and Charlie both start to object to that claim at the same time, but Dean doesn’t hear very much of it, because right at that moment, his phone starts buzzing in his back pocket. He sees Charlie’s phone light up where it has been left on the table, too, and as if the notification to his own phone wasn’t already enough to capture his attention, _that_ would be.

A notification that pushed to his and Charlie’s phones at the same time could mean…

Dean has to twist his body up and off of the couch in order to get his phone out of his pocket, which means his shoulder momentarily presses back into Cas’ side, but once he sees the message waiting for him on his screen, the rest of the room practically ceases to exist.

“Hey, uh, actually, guys.” _The Seattle Times_ was the first to report on it, but as he watches, another notification comes up from ABC News, then another from CNN. “Mind if we switch over to the news?”

The living room goes quiet. Benny sighs, and when Dean tears his eyes away from his phone long enough to look up at him, he finds his friend has already picked up the TV remote to change the inputs.

“Wasn’t there just a big one last week?” Jo says, almost to herself as she crosses her legs and slumps backwards against the couch. She watches glumly as Benny fusses with the TV to get it changed over to the cable box. “This guy deserves a break.”

It’s a sentiment that everyone understands, yet none of them say anything in reply. It doesn’t take Benny too much longer to land the TV on one of the local news stations where, unsurprisingly, the story Dean just read about on his phone is being played out on the screen.

_Breaking News: Bank robbers in custody after attempting to use explosives, rob Sound Community Bank._

Dean reads the headline as it scrolls across the screen, though the news anchors are saying the same thing with more detail at the same time. There is live footage of the police and bunched-up civilians still on the scene, showing the aftermath of the harm the robbers had caused as well as the lingering panic.

A female news anchor says over the visual, “Only one explosive device was detonated unimpeded, but that single explosion caused extensive damage to the monorail track above. The monorail, headed from Westlake to Seattle Center, would have derailed and fallen to the street below if not for the intervention of the Angel. Here is eyewitness footage of that event.”

Dean sits forward as the clip plays, utterly captivated. The footage is shaky, but otherwise clear; there’s chaos in front of the bank, flashes of light and the clear sound of gunfire, then the bomb goes off, and the monorail support crumbles. A few people scream, many begin to run, and up on the monorail track, the incoming monorail is easy to spot. It hurtles toward the broken patch of track but then, just before it can reach it, there’s a blur of black, and it stops in its place.

And the Angel stands in front of it, his palms planted against the monorail’s front window, and two large, impossible to define, winglike shapes stretching out from either side of his spine.

Just as he is every time he sees him, Dean feels like he can’t quite breathe.

Once the monorail is stopped and steady, the Angel turns and dives back down toward the bank, out of sight of the camera man, and the clip ends. The cut back to the news desk is a startling change, but it only jars Dean’s focus for a second. He’s wholly engrossed, hanging on every detail of this latest Angel story.

The anchors go on to say that none of the monorail’s forty-odd passengers sustained any injuries, save for a single concussion. After that point, they focus more on the bank robbers than they do on the hero who stopped them, but they _do_ regularly show a picture of the Angel over their shoulder, a still from the video they had shown. It’s cropped down just to the Angel in all of his black-suited glory, the void-space that make up his wings hanging all around him.

Dean’s seen plenty of stills that look just like that, but he’s still damn fascinated. It might actually make for one of the better pictures of the Angel, in fact.

But Dean will have to check on _that_ later. Download it from the news site, compare it to some of the other ones he has in his files. Maybe there will be something new to see from some of the stills from this video, anyway. There’s no way he _won’t_ dig into this.

It isn’t until Benny stands and crosses between Dean and the TV that Dean’s concentration is finally broken. He blinks several times as he comes back to himself, then again when he sees that his friend is pulling on his coat.

“Where are you going?”

Benny answers him with a raised eyebrow and a thin smile. “We can see where this is goin’, chief. We’ll get out of your hair. I’ll see you in class on Tuesday, yeah?”

Dean belatedly notices that Jo and Charlie are also putting their coats and shoes on, buttoning themselves up to make the return to their dorm through the evening, fall air. Dean quickly gets to his feet, feeling awkward and more than a little bit guilty, but determined to at least give his friends a proper goodbye.

Cas, he also sees, is already gone. Dean really doesn’t know how he missed _that one_ , but then, it tracks pretty well with Cas’ typical disinterest in the Angel. Everyone in Seattle is fascinated by the guy in some way or another, as Dean has realized in the two years since he learned of the city’s hero, but Cas has always been the exception to that rule. He doesn’t care to see him on the news, and gets fidgety and weird whenever Dean brings him up.

Considering Dean hasn’t seen Cas at all today, though, he really wishes his friend had let his disinterest sit for just a few minutes. Just for long enough for Dean to get to _see him_.

But that’s entirely on Dean, just as Charlie, Jo, and Benny’s departures are.

He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, leaning his hip against the back of the couch while he faces his remaining friends. “Sorry, guys. For derailing Mario Night. I, uh… I gotta stop letting this happen, I know.”

Charlie flips her hair out over the collar of her jacket, then comes over to Dean to cup his face with her hands. She’s incredibly serious when she says, “Dean. The brother I never had. My best guy friend. My male counterpart in nerdy hotness. You know we’re always going to support your hobbies, even if those hobbies include stalking the local superhero.”

Jo cackles in the background, and Dean’s face heats. “I’m not _stalking_ —”

“Ah ah!” Charlie pushes the heels of her hands harder into Dean’s cheeks, squishing his mouth out of shape and forcibly cutting off his objection. “Let me finish. Find this Romeo of yours and make all of our support worthwhile, alright? And make lots of cute little superhero babies for Auntie Charlie to dote upon. You got me?”

Dean’s blush only burns brighter. He knows that Charlie is just teasing him, for the most part, but he also knows that her determination can’t be swayed, so he nods within the confines of her palms. As expected, the acceptance placates her, and she releases him with a bright grin.

“Good. Now go do whatever research it is you’re itching to do, nerd boy, and let us know if you find anything earth-shattering.”

Dean sighs, but nods again. “Yeah, okay. Bye guys. See you Tuesday, Benny.”

Once the three have left, the apartment feels much too quiet. The news has gone to commercial, and although it’s sure to cycle back to the Angel story sooner or later, Dean still goes over and turns the TV off. It’ll all be online by now, anyway. He makes a cursory effort to put the living room back together, putting throw pillows where they belong on the couch, moving cups and plates to the sink, relocating the leftover pizza to the fridge. When he’s satisfied with his work, Dean starts toward his bedroom, a familiar itch already settling into the back of his mind. He can practically hear his laptop calling his name.

On his way down the hallway, though, his footsteps slow, and he finds himself stopping in front of Cas’ bedroom door. He hesitates, wars with himself, then raises a hand and knocks.

There’s no sound on the opposite side. Dean sighs. Figures, that he pretty much lost his chance with Cas for the night. He knocks one more time, just to ensure he has Cas’ attention, if nothing else, and calls, “Hey. There’s pizza in the fridge if you want it. I know you usually don’t eat when you’re at Balthazar’s, so feel free to have whatever’s left.”

There’s another moment of silence, but just when Dean starts to think he won’t be acknowledged at all, Cas’ muffled voice says back, “Thank you, Dean. I’ll have some soon.”

Dean smiles at the door. “Sure thing, Cas. Don’t stay holed up in there all night, buddy.”

He knows from experience that he won’t get anything more from Cas at that point, so Dean resigns himself to his night of solitary research, and crosses the hall to close himself into his room. His desk, permanently covered in newspaper clippings and printed photos of the Angel, beckons him onward. He sinks into his desk chair and flips open his laptop, ready to begin his digging.

It’s a familiar routine, by now. Every time a new Angel story breaks, Dean picks it apart, dismantles it down to its roots. He sees what the incident was and how it began, how the Angel arrived and how long it took him, what means he used to stop the criminals involved without causing harm to anyone in the vicinity, criminals and civilians alike.

 _That_ is what had initially caught Dean’s interest. After his own encounter with the Angel, he had been desperate to know what the hell it was he had experienced. What he had _witnessed_.

Because while everyone who’s anyone is in love with Seattle’s Angel (the guy has a damn _Funko Pop!_ , of which Dean of course owns two), no one knows who—or _what_ —the hero is. No one knows his powers, or how they work. No one knows anything about him. He’s only _the Angel_ ; beyond that, he could be anyone, anywhere.

Dean isn’t the only one interested in finding answers to those questions, of course. There are whole groups of people who investigate and theorize and try to put the puzzle pieces together, populating online forums, blog and journal posts, and even the occasional library meet-up somewhere in the general King County area. Some people are fanatics about it, but from what Dean can tell, those fanatics also tend to focus more on the ideal of the hero himself rather than on the science that supports him. They speculate as to his civilian identity, but not so much his not-entirely-human nature. They track Angel sightings, but not the lightning storms which follow on his heels when he’s feeling particularly vengeful.

Which means that Dean’s particular line of research makes him an outlier. And, furthermore, it means he knows more than anyone else.

When it comes to the Angel, Dean has made himself a pro.

Not that anyone knows that, or ever will. But that’s beside the point.

The monorail incident doesn’t turn out to provide much new information for Dean to pick through, but there are interesting tidbits nonetheless. The Angel’s show of bodily strength in stopping the monorail, for one thing. His quick defusal of one of the bank robbers’ bombs (which Dean only uncovers after reading a few eyewitness accounts, since the first news report he saw hadn’t mentioned that detail), done with a single touch. His quick arrival on the scene of the crime, well before the police made it to the bank, is also significant, as is his immediate disappearance afterwards.

The Angel is an enigma, but with as many clues as Dean has, it’s easy to see at least the outline of an image.

The hero never fails to live up to his given nickname. Like an angel, he appears when he’s needed most, a miracle when none is expected; he gets in quick, then gets out quicker, and like the angel he is, he goes off to perform his miracles elsewhere, often without any link between one incident and the next. Except, that is, for the single, most unavoidable common denominator.

The Angel likes to help people.

His powers, whatever they are and however he got them, are used solely for that endeavor. He uses everything he has to protect people. To make his city a better place. To keep everyone he can _safe_.

And that’s why Dean thinks he’s just a little bit in love with him.

And that’s also why he’s determined to find the Angel. One day, somehow—Dean will do it. Not to expose him, like he’s sure a lot of the fanatics would do, but just to… Thank him. To let him know what his diligence means to Dean, and make sure he realizes what kind of impact he’s making.

Or something like that.

Luckily, it’s a far-off enough future that Dean doesn’t have to worry about any kind of semantics just yet, and he probably won’t for quite some time.

Dean squints at his laptop screen as he flips through a handful of new pictures of the Angel, assessing every minute detail in his effort to select the best one. When he’s made his choice, he saves the photo, puts it through photoshop to brighten and sharpen it, then prints it out. When he has his hard copy, he takes a thumbtack out of one of his desk drawers, and pins the picture to the sprawling corkboard that’s mounted on the wall.

It’s a good picture. It shows just enough of the Angel’s face for the lightning in his eyes to be visible, as well as the determined twist to his pale, pink lips, while over his shoulders there are two arching, sweeping shapes, inverted energy gathered into wings.

Dean sits back and studies the board as a whole, staring at all of the pieces of evidence he has managed to put together. He has pictures, articles, scribbles of scientific facts and theories in his own handwriting—the best of the best goes on the board, and thanks to that fact, Dean feels like he knows the Angel better than anyone else.

And that’s how he knows he’ll do it.

He’ll find the Angel one day.

 

 

 

 

Thanks to the flurry of new Angel-centric conversation that the monorail incident kicked up, Dean stays up much later than he should, only collapsing into his bed when the first light of the next day is beginning to filter in through his window. Despite how inclined he is to spend the entire day passed out after that, though, his internal clock is too well-trained to let such a thing happen. It’s only half past nine when he rolls back to his feet and stumbles to his closet for some clean clothes, his eyes still partially closed and a shadowy, not-quite-remembered dream of lightning and rain clinging to the edges of his mind.

He isn’t fully cognizant when he shuffles out of his bedroom, so he falls back on muscle memory to get himself down the hall and into the kitchen. He’s rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes when he crosses into the room, and as such, runs directly into Cas.

“Oh, shit—!”

Cas catches him with an arm around his waist, stopping him from losing his balance before it can even happen. Dean stares at him, wide-eyed and suddenly a hell of a lot more awake.

“Um.” His cheeks go from pink to red as embarrassment at his blunder turns into mortification at how he and Cas are now standing. They’re pressed together at the hip, Cas’ arm curled around his lower back, and Cas is so damn _warm_ —

Cas sucks in a sharp breath when he realizes and quickly withdraws himself. “Oh, ah—apologies, Dean.” He makes a point of patting Dean’s shoulders, like that will prove that he’s now steady and not in danger of falling over, then takes two clear steps backwards. He takes his body heat with him, leaving Dean alarmingly cold. “Given that you’re not truly awake yet, I assume you had a late night. Do you want coffee?”

Dean has to clench his jaw tight to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t—like, for example, asking Cas to come back, because seriously, how is he always _such_ a hot water bottle? And why the hell did Dean think it would be a good idea to dress in a damn sleeveless shirt and thin sweats?—so he limits his answer to a nod, not trusting himself with anything more.

Cas, blessing that he is, just smiles and steps toward the coffee machine. As he pours out a mug, Dean takes the opportunity to finally look around the kitchen. He blinks in surprise at what he sees.

“You’re making breakfast?”

Cas glances over his shoulder, a shy smile pulling at his lips. “Um. Yes?” He finishes pouring Dean’s coffee, then hurries to add cream and sugar to it before turning back around and offering it up. “I know you’re typically better at it than I am, but I feel bad for forgetting about Mario Night last night, and I knew you would be tired this morning, too, so—well. It isn’t much, but I did my best.”

Dean’s fingers are slow to wrap around the coffee mug Cas presses into his hands, his mind lagging as he struggles to process the newest turn of events. Cas tends to be a terrible cook, save for his few, tried and true meals and a handful of essentials. He doesn’t _like_ to cook. Not like Dean does.

And yet, _breakfast_.

Dean is speechless.

“I, um.” He lifts his coffee and takes a quick sip, desperate for even a little bit of mental clarity, then clears his throat. “You didn’t have to do this, you know.”

“I know, I know,” Cas is quick to say. “But I wanted to. The bacon is almost finished, if you would like to sit down.”

Dean can see that Cas isn’t going to be argued with on this, so he ducks his face back down toward his coffee mug and slides away to the edge of the kitchen. He takes a seat at the counter that extends between the kitchen and the living room, settling heavily onto one of the two barstools. It gives him a good vantage point for Cas’ breakfast prep, so he can watch and continue to be baffled without feeling like a creep.

Sitting down also has the bonus of reminding Dean just how _exhausted_ he is. Now that his awkward moment with his roommate has passed, his thoughts are back to being slow and thick, and his bones feel heavy. The smells of coffee and sizzling bacon are steadily sinking through to him, though, reviving him just as much as the actual caffeine is bound to do.

Cas fusses around the kitchen, a bit twitchy, now that Dean is watching him, but otherwise entirely focused on his task. He gives the utmost attention to every part of his breakfast, clearly determined to not even so much as over-crisp the slices of bread he puts in the toaster.

It’s more than a little adorable. Dean has to bite his lip to keep from smiling at the way Cas’ brow creases with the force of his concentration, the ultimate show of how important this is to him.

Altogether, it makes Dean feel much too warm inside.

Before Dean can dwell on that too much, though, Cas transfers his sizzling bacon out of the frypan and onto a plate, and slides it across the counter to Dean. Dean thanks him with a bright grin—Cas’ own smile wobbles when he does—and promptly digs in, all other thoughts promptly leaving his mind.

The bacon is delicious, and Dean devours it like a starving man. There is also more of it on the plate than Dean could ever need in one sitting, so by the time Cas brings over a plate of toast and settles onto the second barstool, there’s still more than enough left to share. The other man picks at it, not nearly as ravenous as Dean clearly is, but even as they eat, he seems… muted. Quiet.

Dean gives into the pull of concern in his gut and glances up. There’s a distant sort of look in Cas’ eyes that confirms the mood radiating off of him, and Dean frowns at the sight.

And then he realizes where Cas’ eyes are fixed.

Dean very rarely wears sleeveless shirts. He’ll wear them in the height of summer, when the Seattle weather finally tips anywhere above seventy-five and everyone automatically dresses like it’s _ninety_ -five, and sometimes to bed, if he has some reason to want to wear a shirt instead of sleeping shirtless (which typically means, when people are over or he’s trying to conceal a hickey or two). But as he’s remembering right now, there’s another reason why he tends to think better about ditching sleeves.

When his arms are bare, the scar from his bullet wound is incredibly obvious. The thick, whitish-pink line cuts straight across his bicep, a permanent reminder of a night which could have been catastrophic. The injury is long since healed, but it still tends to ache in the cold; aside from that, Dean often forgets that it’s there at all.

Cas, though. Cas has always taken a clear issue with the scar.

Dean sighs. “Cas.”

His roommate’s eyes snap up to meet his own. Guilt immediately flashes through them. “Sorry. I just—”

“I know, Cas, it’s—”

“—It reminds me of how close I may have been to not getting to meet my best friend.”

All at once, Dean’s mouth goes dry. They’ve talked around That Night before, enough for Dean to tell Cas what happened and explain his appreciation of the Angel, but never in an incredible amount of detail.

Never to the degree that Cas has said something like _that_.

Dean’s voice is thick with emotion when he repeats, “ _Cas_.”

Cas looks down at his lap and shakes his head. “You were attacked, Dean. You know that man could have killed you. And you’re a very important person in my life, so it’s very strange to think about. Fate is a fickle thing, and that near of a miss just seems like…”

 _Divine intervention_ , Dean’s mind automatically finishes. Most people tend to talk about the Angel in those kinds of terms, thanks to the alias he was given—or, hell, maybe that’s what _gave him_ the alias, but Dean has never cared much for the details of that part—so it’s an easy gap to fill. He knows there’s only one reason why he’s alive.

Fate might be fickle. Angels aren’t.

Because the Angel _saves_.

Dean reaches out and puts his hand on Cas’ shoulder. It feels like a touch they both need, in that moment, and encourages Cas to look back up at him. “Maybe I could have died, but I didn’t. This scar means that I’m _fine_. So don’t be getting all sappy on me now, alright? You’re my best friend, too, but that doesn’t mean we gotta be having chick flick moments.”

He says it as lightly, making it clear that he’s teasing, but there’s still a flash of vulnerability in Cas’ eyes. It fills Dean with regret, so he acts on impulse, desperate to soothe the rift before it actually becomes one.

Cas makes a choked sound of surprise when Dean pulls him into a hug, but doesn’t fight against it. In fact, once he gets with the program, Cas curls his arms around Dean and makes the hug even tighter than it already was. His natural warmth seeps into Dean’s bones, and goosebumps break out all along Dean’s arms at the feeling of it.

The moment stretches out for longer than he initially intended, but truth be told, Dean can’t find it in himself to complain. He lets Cas have his fill of hugging (he _did_ make them breakfast, after all), then gently extracts himself only when there’s no excuse for it to continue. The hug is nice, sure, but Dean isn’t eager to make things awkward between him and his roommate.

Cas doesn’t say anything about the hug, after they’ve parted, so Dean keeps silent, too. It’s easiest, he figures. Best not to fumble through more emotional talks, especially since he already called it out as being chick-flick.

They return to picking at their breakfast, situated closer to one another on their barstools than they had been previously. Another thing they don’t comment on.

While he chews on a piece of toast, Dean watches Cas from the corner of his eye. The air between them is comfortable, despite their burst of sappiness, so Dean takes the opportunity to look at Cas. _Actually_ look at him.

The bags beneath his eyes aren’t as pronounced as they had been the previous night, but his standard exhaustion is still clear in the way he holds himself. The way his shoulders slope, the way his chin dips toward his chest. Dean studies the shape of him, idly wondering if the poor guy even slept the night before.

He asks before he can change his mind, “What did you get up to yesterday?”

Cas’ head whips up so quickly that for a split second, Dean is genuinely worried for his health. His eyes go as wide as Cas’ already are in surprise, and for a long, drawn out moment, the two of them stare at each other in silence.

When it seems like Cas isn’t going to answer him, Dean prompts, “I mean, I assume you were with Balthazar? Unless you went off without him?”

“Oh,” Cas breathes. The tension in the air disappears just as quickly as it arrived, and the color begins to return to Cas’ face. “Oh. Um—yes, I was with Balthazar. We…” His next exhale shudders on its way out, and his gaze drops to his lap. “I accompanied him to a party, as I’m sure you could have guessed.”

Right. Of course. Dean nods at the confirmation. “Art kegger?”

Cas wrinkles his nose. “Yes, that’s the one.”

“Mhm.” Dean barely resists the urge to sigh as he slides off of his stool and goes around the counter into the kitchen. It’s not exactly a secret that he disapproves of Cas’ love of parties, but hounding that point any more than he already has in the past isn’t going to get him anywhere. It isn’t his place to be a nagging mother hen; if Cas wants to drink and smoke and fuck his way through his undergrad years, that’s his own prerogative. It doesn’t mean that Dean can’t be friends with him.

Hell, it’s probably one of the biggest reasons why Dean _should_ be friends with him. He’s friends with Cas because he likes him, obviously, first and foremost, but if he also wants to make a point of being a good, steady influence on him, well. That’s not a bad thing, is it?

He can be better than Balthazar, at any rate.

And even just that thought makes Dean’s stomach twist.

He busies himself at the sink for a few minutes, washing his hands and rinsing out his coffee cup. When he turns back to Cas, he leans against the counter opposite him, elbows propped on the edge.

“Based on how you looked when you came in last night…” Dean gives his roommate a pointed look. He isn’t going to directly call out Cas’ hungover state, but he wants Cas to know that he _knows_ regardless. “I’m guessing you should probably take it easy, today. Greasy foods, lots of hydration, all that good stuff. And, uh. Maybe we can go see a movie or something?”

Cas lights up at the suggestion. “A movie sounds like a lot of fun,” he says. It’s a simple thing, but he looks so damn excited by the prospect that Dean wishes he’d pitched it sooner. He wishes it was something they _did_.

Seeing a movie is a much better thing for Cas to be doing than drinking or getting high, and Dean would rather _he_ be with Cas than let Balthazar have him. Maybe if this goes well, if they can make a routine of it…

As Dean watches, though, Cas’ excitement fades back away. His smile wilts, and anguish replaces it.

Dean’s stomach drops. He knows what’s coming before it happens.

“Dean, I—”

“Right. It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“Honestly, Cas, don’t worry—”

“ _Fuck_.” Cas drops his head into his hands, looking pained. “Fuck, Dean, I’m so sorry. I just. I need a raincheck.”

Dean sighs and pushes up off of the counter. “Yeah, don’t worry about it. Some other time.”

Cas pushes his hands up into his hair, making it stick up even more than usual. It adds to his distressed appearance. Looking at him makes Dean ache in the most unpleasant way imaginable. He twists on his heel and starts to leave the kitchen, suddenly wanting nothing more than to shut himself back up in his bedroom and waste away his Saturday pretending that none of this ever happened.

He doesn’t make it more than a few steps before Cas calls after him.

“I have to see my brother today.”

Dean stops in his tracks.

In all the time they’ve been friends, Cas has never talked much about his family. Dean had half expected that to change after they became roommates, but it hadn’t, so he never pushed. He had done what he could to make sure Cas got on good terms with Sam and even Bobby, linking him to a family to compensate for the one he clearly didn’t want to talk about, and considered himself satisfied with that.

Cas has always seemed happy with that, too. He frequently asks after Sam, and fits in with Sam and Dean’s dynamic perfectly, whenever Sam comes out to Seattle for a visit. The one time he met Bobby, Cas nervously refused to call him anything but Mr. Singer, and yet somehow still came out of the weekend with Bobby declaring him to be his favorite of Dean’s ‘idjit friends’.

So as far as Dean is often concerned, his family is Cas’ family. Cas is _his_ family.

After all, anyone who Cas doesn’t deem to talk about can’t be a family worth having.

Dean slowly turns back around and repeats, “Your brother?”

Cas’ lip twitches, a barely-there flinch. “Yes. He, uh.” He clears his throat. “Of my four siblings, it seems to be just my luck that _this_ is the one who has reached out to me. He contacted me last night.”

Dean drifts back toward the counter, his attention entirely Cas’. “Alright, I’ll bite. Which one is this one? Why’s he so bad?”

Cas takes a moment to think his answer over. When he begins to speak, he does so slowly, every word chosen with care.

“My brother is a… challenging person,” he begins. “He is the second oldest in the family, though he has always resented being labelled as such. Michael and Nick are twins, but Michael was born before Nick by a matter of about thirty minutes, and Nick was born after midnight, so they technically had separate birthdays. But—” Cas cuts himself off with a wave of his hand, signalling that he’s gotten off track and he knows it. “He is a foul person who resents every member of our family, is my point. He is impossible to get along with.”

Loathe though Dean is to interrupt, he has to frown at that. “But you’re going to see him anyway?”

Cas’ shoulders slump. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“My brother is not someone to be refused, Dean.”

Dean’s frown only grows deeper. “So what? If he’s a dick, tell him to go to hell. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to, Cas. He might be family, but that kind of thing is _your_ call.”

Cas’ lips twist into the ghost of a smile, but his eyes are filled with sympathy. It’s easy for Dean to see the expression for what it is. He doesn’t think he can be blamed, though.

So maybe he doesn’t understand what Cas is going through. Maybe he doesn’t know what Cas’ relationship is like with his brother, or what kind of asshole that brother is. Dean can tell that the situation is a difficult one in every possible respect, but that small amount of insight is only worth so much.

But Christ, he’s _trying_.

Cas doesn’t harass him for not understanding, though, not that he ever would. He just says, so incredibly gently, “It wouldn’t do anyone any good to anger him. Nick isn’t a good man, Dean.”

The meaning hiding behind those words makes Dean’s blood run cold. “Are you saying he was—”

“He contacted me because he was just released from prison. If that is any indication.”

Dean blanches. “Jesus, Cas. That—fuck. I’m so sorry.”

Cas shrugs, playing at being unaffected, but Dean can see right through it. He knows Cas too well to fail to read such a simple thing. “It is what it is,” Cas says. “Nick has always been the way that he is, and that is something I am used to. I’ve learned to deal with him, by this stage in my life.”

“Doesn’t mean you should _have to_ ,” Dean counters, a hint of a pout in his voice. Cas deserves a hell of a lot better than having to put up with this bullshit. He sighs and asks, “What about your other siblings? Michael and the other two? One is a sister, right?”

Cas dips his chin in a nod. “Michael left the family behind long ago. Anna did her time dealing with Nick, and very nearly didn’t make it out on the other side, as a result. And Gabe… Gabe keeps away from it all. Not that I can blame him for that.”  

“So now you get Jailbird Joey all to yourself.”

“Lucky me, right?” Cas says dryly.

Dean almost smiles. Then he offers, somber once again, “Do you want me to go with you?”

Cas sighs. “No. No, I should see him alone, and get it over with.” Before Dean’s disappointment can set in at the rejection, though, Cas reaches across the counter and brushes his knuckles across the back of Dean’s hand, where it’s resting against the countertop between them. “I appreciate that you would be willing to accompany me, though, Dean. Truly. It means more to me than you could ever know.”

“Sure.” Dean’s throat is tight, so he has to swallow hard before continuing, “Let me know if you change your mind, okay? I’ve got your back, no matter what.”

Cas smiles, but his eyes drop back toward the counter. “Yes, I know. Thank you.”

The kitchen goes quiet, then, neither of them having anything left to say. Dean thinks about it all, weighing what he now knows about Cas’ family situation—should he push to go with Cas to see his brother? He doesn’t want to overstep, but it could still be the right thing to do—but ultimately sighs in resignation. He drags himself away from the counter, easing in the direction of his room once more.

“I have a lab report I need to get written up for physics,” he tells Cas. It’s true, too, despite how much it feels like a flimsy excuse in that moment. “Give me a holler if you need anything. Or let me know when you’re leaving to go see your brother, at least.”

“Of course, Dean.”

And that’s the end of that. Dean nods at Cas, then finally turns and leaves the kitchen.

He means it when he says he has Cas’ back, but this one—Dean will let him have this one. Dean will make sure he does better next time.

For now, he has a lab report to pretend he cares about, and concerns for his friend to shove down and ignore.

 

 

 

 

Cas doesn’t talk about his brother, after he goes to visit him. Dean tries not to ask too many questions—he resists the urge to ask why Nick Novak was in prison, or where Cas could have gone to meet with his abusive, jailbird brother that wasn’t automatically awkward as hell—but what he _does_ ask doesn’t get him many answers.

No, nothing happened. Nick had just wanted to talk.

Yes, Cas is okay. Spending an hour with his shitty older brother isn’t going to send him into a breakdown, or whatever it is Dean might be expecting.

No, the two of them are not going to reconcile.

No, they are not going to see each other again, if Cas can help it.

And of course: no, he doesn’t want to talk about it, but thank you, Dean.

In his efforts not to push, Dean also opts to give Cas space, physically as well as emotionally. His resolution to do so is put to the test when Cas takes that space to fuck off even more than usual, but, well.

Dean is giving him _space_. He’s being a good friend.

Even if that means letting his best friend slink off to bars and parties and whatever else it is that he gets up to when Dean isn’t around. Guilty habit that it is, Cas also doesn’t talk about _that_ —but then, that isn’t exactly new. Cas’ penchant for slipping off to chase his vices is one of the most steady parts of their friendship, really; if that were to change, then Dean would _really_ be concerned for him.

Granted, he’s concerned for Cas anyway, but that’s also pretty par for the course.

The next few days pass quicker than Dean wants them to, lost in a daze of long classes, grey skies, hasty dashes across campus and back, and a hell of a lot of studying and assignment work. It _feels_ like mid-November, that nebulous bubble between the middle of the quarter and the end, when midterms are finished and Dead Week looms on the horizon. With all that the week puts on his plate, Dean doesn’t end up with time to think about much of anything else. Even his Angel tracking falls to the wayside, although he lets that happen in part because Seattle’s resident hero keeps himself to a low profile.

(He’s still _around_ , sure, because the Angel is always around, but he falls back to his regular, between-major-emergencies kind of jobs. Stopping robberies and assaults, saving people from fires and cats from trees. Dean still tracks what he can of the smaller miracles, but there’s less to dissect from those incidents, so he feels comfortable saving the effort.)

Unfortunately, Dean doesn’t have any classes with Cas this quarter (an engineering student and a literature-slash-sociology student can really only share the most basic of pre-reqs and electives, after all), so he can really only cross his fingers and hope that his friend is making it to all of his lectures. Given how frequently—or infrequently, rather—he sees Cas around their apartment, it could really go either way.

It isn’t until Thursday comes around that the paranoia simmering beneath Dean’s skin comes to a head. He doesn’t realize just how strong it’s gotten until he walks into his physics class and spots Balthazar, lounging in the back row of the lecture hall with a pair of Ray-Bans over his eyes. The sight of him sets something sour burning in Dean’s chest, and he storms to the back of the room before he’s even aware of what he’s doing.

Balthazar, for his part, doesn’t so much as twitch when Dean throws his backpack into the empty seat next to him. He lets Dean glare at him for a few moments before he deigns to even push his sunglasses down his nose in acknowledgement.

“Can I help you?” he drawls, and all at once, Dean remembers why he usually chooses to avoid Balthazar. Damn prick with his stupid, poncy British accent.

Dean tends to like the University’s international students, because they bring a lot to the overall school culture, but this one in particular? Dean could really, _really_ do without him.

He fights to keep his scowl to himself and cuts straight to the point. “Has Cas been acting any different with you this week?”

Balthazar blinks. It’s a subtle thing, but he thinks the guy’s face loses some of its naturally-taunting edge, turns more serious. “What kind of different?”

Dean is tempted to tell him that he’s hardly seen Cas since the weekend, but he’s sure Balthazar will just taunt him for that, and probably call him a nagging housewife. Besides, if Cas has been _with_ Balthazar, then it’s not as though the guy doesn’t know, anyway.

So he answers with a question. “He tell you he saw his brother this weekend?”

Balthazar sits up straighter, his easy-going mood definitely gone. “Tell me you mean Gabriel.”

Dean’s upper lip twitches. He didn’t know about Cas’ brothers until Saturday, yet Balthazar even knows which one is the good one? Figures. “Nick,” he corrects.

Balthazar swears loudly. A few other students turn in their seats to look at him, but he pays them no mind. He pushes his Ray-Bans up into his hair and scrubs a hand down his face. “Dear Cassie neglected to tell me about that, as a matter of fact. But that certainly explains…” He shakes his head, then grumbles, practically to himself, “He’s such an obnoxious prick. He’s going to be the death of me, I swear.”

Dean scoffs. He knows the feeling. “So he _has_ been different, then. How bad is this affecting him? We don’t need an intervention, do we?”

There’s a beat of tension. Balthazar stares at Dean, brow furrowed like he’s assessing him, and then—

“No, no, he’ll be fine.” Balthazar flaps a hand and sinks back into his seat, his earlier nonchalance returning as if it had never left to begin with. Dean suspects it isn’t entirely authentic, but it bothers him nonetheless. “So maybe he’s been a bit more reckless than usual; I’ll have a chat with him now that I know it isn’t simply a _zest for life_ which is keeping his engines burning. You should have seen him last night, though.”

Dean recognizes where this is going a second too late, and his stomach swoops uncomfortably. He returns Balthazar’s wicked grin with a careful mask of indifference—which is probably entirely transparent, if the sharpening of that grin is anything to go by.

Balthazar goes on, “You should have seen the sexy little thing he spent the night grinding on last night. There was a triple birthday in one of the frat houses, and the celebration got _wild_ —”

“Okay, jackass, if you could just talk to Cas—”

“Alright everyone, let’s settle in!” the professor calls from the front of the lecture hall. Dean is surprised to see that the hall is mostly filled, now, and he’s one of the only people left standing. He directs one last scowl at Balthazar, just for good measure—damn smarmy motherfucker—then jerks his backpack back out of chair beside him, and goes to find somewhere else to sit.

Thankfully, Benny is easy to spot, sitting in his usual place toward the middle of the room. His bag is in the chair next to him, and he slides it to the floor as soon as he sees Dean coming, relinquishing the saved seat. Dean gives him a small, grateful smile, sitting down just as their professor begins to talk about their relevant points for the day. Dean is lucky enough to have a knack for quantum mechanics, so he isn’t too concerned about following along with everything the woman says, but he still rushes to pull his laptop out and get his note sheet open.

As he fumbles through his bag, Benny leans over to him and whispers, “What was that about?”

“What, Douchebag McGee up there?” Dean scoffs quietly, skillfully ducking his face behind his laptop screen so that he can talk for a few more seconds without the professor noticing. “Nothing. Just Cas related shit, and he was being a dick, as per usual.”

“Well, I could tell that much by your face,” Benny says with a chuckle. “Figured it had to be somethin’ serious for you to be up there talking to him, anyway.” He pauses for a beat, then asks, “Anything you need help with, brother?”

Dean shakes his head. “It’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”

Benny knocks his knee against Dean’s, a wordless gesture of support, and then the two of them turn their attention to the lecture taking place around them. Dean resolutely avoids any and every thought about Balthazar and Cas for the duration of it, but when the class is filtering out of the hall afterwards, he swears he sees Balthazar staring at him.

By the time Dean turns his head to confirm, though, or maybe even call him out on it, Balthazar is gone, vanished into the surging crowd of students.

 

 

 

 

By the time Dean gets home from his Thursday classes, he’s mentally and physically wiped. His talk with Balthazar that morning in physics basically set the bar for the rest of the day; he’d had a pop quiz in his math quiz section (making for the first time the scheduled hour was actually used as named), there was an event going on in Red Square and spilling into the Quad that nearly made him late to his final class, and as the cherry on top, it started pouring just in time for him to make his trek back home.

It was great. Fun. Amazing. Just… all that Dean needed.

The fact that he comes into the apartment to find Cas passed out on the couch, then, kind of gives him split feelings. On the one hand, seeing his roommate home and safe satisfies something deep inside of Dean—the same something that was bothered all throughout his talk with Balthazar, in fact. Plus, Cas always looks so _peaceful_ when he sleeps. Without the constant stress lines that plague him when he’s awake, he looks… younger. Happier. Like he doesn’t have an Atlas complex.

But at the same time, seeing Cas there on the couch pisses Dean off.

The anger that floods through him is irrational, he recognizes, but that doesn’t stop it from taking root. There’s no logic that can stop it, because for fuck’s sake.

All that Dean has been stressing over his best friend lately, and Cas is just… here? Sleeping away the afternoon like there’s nothing better to be doing? Like _he_ isn’t also buried in classes and homework and everything else that goes along with his heavy course load?

Beyond that, though, seeing Cas also serves to make Balthazar’s words crash back down around him, reverberating through Dean’s ears as they replay again and again.

_You should have seen the sexy little thing he spent the night grinding on last night._

Dean knows that there’s a side to Cas that he’s never seen before. He’s been listening to Balthazar tell stories about what a party animal Cas is for two years, now, so it should be something that he’s used to.

But fuck, sometimes, it’s like he doesn’t even know who Cas is.

And looking at Cas, sleeping on the couch—that feeling is stinging more than usual.

“Fucking Balthazar,” Dean grumbles to himself. He storms to his room and slams the door shut behind himself, much harder than he probably should, in his irritation. The entire apartment shakes with the force of it, and in the living room, there’s a loud _thud_.

 _Shit_.

Dean waits with an ear against his door, listening for any sounds that follow. He hears Cas take a few steps around the living room, each one marked by a subtle creaking of the hardwood floor.

Then there’s a cautious call of, “Dean?”

Dean lets out a sigh. “Yeah?”

There’s a long moment of silence. The floor creaks one final time. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Dean replies through gritted teeth. So what, now Cas is concerned? For _him_? No. He turns away from the door and makes a point of loudly opening and closing the drawers in his desk before shouting out toward his roommate, “I’ve got homework, and I’m putting my headphones on. Text me if you gotta.”

“Oh,” Cas says, his voice now much closer than it had been—he’s right outside of Dean’s door, now, no longer in the living room. Dean fights the urge to even so much as look in that direction, too stubborn to yield even that far.

A beat passes, then Cas adds, “Okay. Good luck with your… homework.”

Dean drops into his desk chair without bothering to answer. He pulls his headphones out, as he implied he would, but he doesn’t actually put them on; he wants to be able to hear if Cas leaves. He gets his laptop out of his bag, too, though when he opens it up, he only takes a brief look at his waiting assignments before deciding he isn’t in the mood to deal with them. He has a quiz to do on Canvas, a collaborative Google Doc he needs to pitch in on with a few other people, and a study guide to fill out. It’s all work he _should_ do.

But he’s not going to. Because fuck that.

Fuck everything.

He spends the next few hours dicking around on the internet instead, while the rest of the apartment stays relatively quiet, save for the hum of the TV that he can hear through his wall. Notably, the front door never opens.

He sends a message to Sam over Skype, which then turns into a pleasantly casual catch-up conversation that eats up a good chunk of time. Sam tells him about his classes, then asks about Dean’s in turn. Dean, of course, plays his classes off as being much easier than they actually are, but given how vague Sam is about his AP Stats class, Dean suspects that that’s happening on both sides. The realization makes Dean grin at his laptop.

The most interesting part of the conversation with Sam comes from the mention of a _girl_. Dean latches onto it instantly—because what kind of big brother would he be if he didn’t?—and pushes for every detail he can about her, but unsurprisingly, all that accomplishes is getting Sam to clam up.

In the end, Sam sends him a message saying, _Alright, I’m going to see a movie with Eileen. Gotta go._

Dean, naturally, responds with, _:D Be a gentleman._

_Ugh. Shut up, Dean._

And then the dot by Sam’s contact picture changes from green to grey, and that’s the end of that.

Dean’s smile gradually fades away as he stares at that dot. He loves talking to Sam, but damn, does it suck when he eventually _can’t_ talk to Sam anymore. It makes him feel disconnected. Homesick.

He’s glad that Sam is happy and doing well. He really, truly is. But Dean also misses the hell out of his brother.

And hey, maybe he also wishes his life were going that smoothly. Easy classes, movie dates with someone he has a crush on—

Dean forces his thoughts to a halt.

Nope. Not going there. Not today.

With his Sam distraction now gone, Dean slumps onto his desk, his chin propped in his palm, and starts tabbing through local news sites. He half hopes to find a new Angel story just for the excuse to focus on something, but all of his specific searches for the hero come up empty. It’s mildly disappointing, but at the same time, it _does_ mean that Seattle hasn’t found a new way to suffer yet to _need_ the Angel. Stories that go big are typically, well. _Big_. Dean can’t actually wish for anything like that to happen.

Of course, just because the Angel isn’t involved doesn’t mean there isn’t crime. There is still plenty of drama being reported around the Puget Sound area, from small scuffles between neighbors to incidents of road rage and even a case of arson. Most of it is widespread, but small change, in the grand scheme of things.

Which, really, is probably why the Angel has felt comfortable taking some time for himself. Whatever life it is he leads when he isn’t wearing a mask, he’s clearly spent the day tending to it.

Or so Dean thinks, until he sees a fresh post nestled in a forum dedicated to the Angel.

_Angel sighting in West Seattle?_

Dean clicks in, curiosity piqued. None of the major news outlets had reported on an Angel sighting, so is this a hoax, or something that went under the main radar?

The picture that is included in the post is somewhat blurry, so Dean turns up the brightness on his screen and leans in close to squint at it.

It’s a man, standing on top of an apartment building in West Seattle. There are no energy wings to be seen, even with the angle of the sun behind him, but the dark lines of his suit seem about right. The details of it may be lost to the image’s poor quality, the Angel’s usually-sharp jawline no more than a smudge, but overall, it’s believable.

Believable, or a _very_ good copycat.

There are only three comments on the post, two of which are debating the legitimacy of the photo and questioning what the Angel could have been doing there, and the third being an inane, _I used to live in that building!_ The original poster has replied to each one, so Dean creates a comment of his own.

 

 **AngelHunter:** When did you take this pic?

 

While he waits for a response, he opens a new tab and searches for criminal incidents in West Seattle within the last day and a half, or so. The West Seattle neighborhood is big enough that there’s a fair amount to sort through. What drew the Angel in that direction? The break-in at the jewelry store, the guy who got out of his car and lunged at another driver with a machete in his hand? Nothing from the previous day of news seems to properly fit the Angel’s typical bill, which leaves Dean stumped.

When he clicks back over to the forum, his brow creased in a permanent frown, he finds an answering set of comments waiting for him.

 

 **AngelHunter:** When did you take this pic?

| **dreamwalker206:** About two hours ago.

| **dreamwalker206:** Hey wait, if angelhunter is on this post, does that mean that was really the angel? Am I legit now?

 

 

Dean rolls his eyes at the second reply, and chooses not to respond to either. He’s not in the mood to be interacting with… fans. The reputation he holds in the forum doesn’t actually mean much to him.

He has something more important to be focused on, anyway.

Two hours ago.

If it was only two hours ago, maybe it was an incident that the news hasn’t reported on yet?

As soon as Dean has that bit of information to go off of, he switches sources, and starts reading through police scanner reports and local Facebook and Twitter pages that are ahead of the main news sites. However, most of them are quiet; nothing serious has been reported in the West Seattle area, and aside from a few generic calls, even the police scanner is uneventful. Dean scowls, disappointment washing through him.

And then, just when he’s about to call it quits, he sees it.

_Family Found Dead in West Seattle - Developing_

Dean reads the article quickly, but what he finds quickly makes his stomach turn. A family of three was found dead in their home, two of them with their skulls bashed in with a hammer and the third killed by a seemingly self-inflicted shot to the head. A witness saw a strange man leaving the house and quickly called police, which led to the discovery of the bodies.

The overall time frame seems to put the family’s death at about two or three hours prior. Right when the Angel was spotted.

On an apartment building directly across the street from the family’s home.

But—no. No, that can’t be right. Since when does the Angel get involved in murders?

And more importantly… Why was he there, if it wasn’t to help?

Dean doesn’t have the slightest idea, but he certainly knows what people might say. He knows what people _will_ say, if the narrative is assembled in the right way. This is the kind of thing that could be _catastrophic_.

He takes a deep breath to steel himself, and ignores the slight trembling in his hands as he goes back to his first tab. The thread beneath the Angel’s picture is much more active than it had been when Dean saw it last, filled with new comments and speculations,  but he knows just how to put a decisive end to it.

 

 **AngelHunter:** When did you take this pic?

| **dreamwalker206:** About two hours ago.

| **dreamwalker206:** Hey wait, if angelhunter is on this post, does that mean that was really the angel? Am I legit now?

| **AngelHunter:** Nah, it’s not the Angel. Just some mook in a costume. Angel was spotted over Everett at about the same time. Sorry to burst your bubble, tho.

 

And that’s the end of that.

Even if Dean’s stomach is still twisted into knots, and a voice in the back of his mind is asking, _What the hell are you doing?_

He closes his laptop and shoves away from his desk, a nervous energy now firmly lodged in his gut. He can’t stay seated, and he definitely can’t stay cooped up in his room, so he lets his bubble of unease carry him out of his room and into the living room. He needs the change in scenery too badly to think about anything else, and it isn’t until he sees Cas, blinking owlishly at him from the couch, that the beginning half of his day comes crashing back to the forefront of his mind.

Before the West Seattle shit, before he talked to Sam—he was irritated at Cas.

Right.

Even as he recalls his earlier frustrations, however, Dean doesn’t have the energy to feel them in full. He’s never been able to stay mad at Cas for very long, and now is no different. In fact, once he lays eyes on his friend, Dean feels a pull toward him. Dean _craves_ him.

That isn’t entirely new, in the strictest sense, but the specific way that he’s currently experiencing it is. He’s stressed and in need of comfort, and he knows without a shred of doubt that his best friend can give him that comfort.

Cas shifts on the couch, like he’s not sure whether he should stand up or not. “Dean? Is everything..?”

Instead of answering, Dean crosses the distance between them and throws himself onto the couch next to Cas. He can feel Cas stiffen as he slumps against him, but when Dean doesn’t relent, Cas gives into it and relaxes once more. They end up leaning against one another as if the support is vital for them both. Hell, maybe it is; Cas is rarely home all day, and yet he has been today, so who knows what’s going on in his head. For all Dean knows, the drama with his brother could be rearing its head back up.

Dean decides to tell himself that that’s the case, because if it is, then this isn’t something that he needs to feel guilty for. It’s not selfish if it’s balanced.

Cas, bless him, doesn’t do anything else but turn the TV volume up a few notches. There’s a rerun of _Chopped_ playing, which makes Dean smile. He will never _not_ be amused by Cas’ love for Food Network, given how terrible he is in the kitchen.

He knows that Cas sees his smile, too, because he flicks Dean on the thigh. His smile only grows wider as a result.

After a few minutes, Cas asks, carefully and without so much as turning his head, “How was your homework?”

Dean grunts. “Terrible.”

Not a lie. He didn’t do it, which is terrible, and what he found instead is also terrible. Terrible all around.

But he doesn’t want to dwell on it, so he doesn’t. He adjusts his position on the couch, shoulder pressing a bit more solidly into Cas’. “Wanna order in Chinese?”

Cas huffs. “Don’t ask stupid questions. I’ll never say no to Chinese.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, I know. I ask as a formality.”

And to make sure Cas isn’t planning on leaving.

Cas doesn’t say anything about leaving, though, so Dean hangs onto the tentative belief that it isn’t going to happen. He lets himself get absorbed in the cooking show that’s playing, then calls in an order of Chinese food once it’s over. When it arrives, he and Cas continue to sit side by side on the couch to eat. They watch more _Chopped_ , passing judgement on every competitor and every dish. They bicker over who they each think will win. They laugh at dumb commercials.

It’s as mundane as it gets, and Dean absolutely adores it.

He watches as Cas _tsks_ and shakes his head at a competitor’s failed use of the ice cream machine, and in that moment, Dean comes to a decision.

Fuck whatever Balthazar says. Maybe he knows a different version of Cas than Dean does. Maybe there’s a side to Cas that Dean simply has never met and never will.

But that’s fine. Because this Cas, _his_ version of Cas, is the Cas that is his best friend. The Cas that he cares about and would do anything for. And that’s what matters.

Satisfied with the resolve, Dean settles in more comfortably on the couch, one of his arms stretched along the back and resting mere inches from Cas’ neck. Cas turns to him for just a moment, a soft look on his face that makes Dean’s heart race.

Then the chef who used the ice cream machine is announced as the _Chopped_ winner, and Cas whirls back around to glare at the TV with a growl of, “That is _bullshit_.”

Dean laughs until there are tears in his eyes, then laughs harder still when Cas tries to smother him with a throw pillow in retaliation.

He’s definitely happy with his version of Cas.

 

 

 

 

Dean wakes up on Friday morning to an empty apartment, and an email from one of his professors saying that their class is cancelled for the day.

One of those things is definitely better for his morning mood than the other.

Even if Cas flew the coop early, though, Dean is grateful for the free day to dedicate to the homework he’s been neglecting. Sure, he wishes he at least knew what might have drawn his roommate out so early in the morning, but—Cas will come back eventually. He always does.

Hell, maybe Dean will even intentionally lure him back in. Cas has always been a sucker for Dean’s homemade burgers, so Dean is sure that if he texts and tells Cas that they’re on the menu for tonight, Cas will drop everything else to get home.

It might be a bit of a dirty tactic, but if the ends justify the means…

But that’s something to think about later. For now, Dean has a hell of a lot of homework ahead of him, and he’s put it off for long enough. He scrounges up a passable breakfast from what odds and ends are available to him in the fridge, then sets his laptop up at the kitchen table, and buckles down to get shit done.

The next several hours pass in a blur of rapid typing and dry eyes. It isn’t fun, by any stretch, but by early afternoon, Dean is satisfied with his progress, and caught up with just about everything he needs to be. With that accomplishment under his belt, he feels comfortable leaving his work station behind to find himself lunch, and also take a look at his phone for the first time since his sprint began.

There are a few messages from Charlie waiting for him; one is a complaint about a professor, while the rest are increasingly-coercive invitations to go out for lunch. Dean chews idly on his lower lip as he considers it. There’s a part of him that wants to stay in and be a homebody, but he always has a good time when he goes out with Charlie, and it sounds like a good way to celebrate his homework successes, besides.

He texts Charlie back to ask when and where.

Then also takes a stab in the dark and texts Cas, too. _Getting drinks with Charlie. Any interest?_

Not that _Dean_ will be getting drinks—his twenty-first isn’t for two more months, which means that his drinking, rare as it is anyway, is still limited to happening at home—but Charlie had her birthday in September, and Cas is older than them both by nearly a year, even though they’re all in the same year in terms of school. It’s disappointing for Dean to not be able to sit in a bar with his two best friends, but he’s used to it.

And he’s definitely not above bribing either of his best friends with alcohol to get them where he wants them, even if it’s technically out of his own reach.

Charlie responds to him fairly quickly, and with a lunch location already in mind. The restaurant she chooses is a bit more expensive than Dean would normally want to go for, but all it takes is an offer to pay for Dean to be swayed. The place is easy to get to, at least, located at a shopping center just northeast of campus, so overall, Dean doesn’t have anything to object to.

He hopes that the central location will also mean that Cas will be willing to join them, if he decides to come back out of whatever hole he apparently dropped into for the day. Only time will tell with that one, though.

But alas, by the time Dean is leaving the apartment forty-five minutes later, he hasn’t gotten any sort of response from Cas. Even as Dean sighs, however, he can’t actually bring himself to be surprised or disappointed, so he puts it from his mind and heads out for U Village.

Charlie is already in a booth in the back JOEY Kitchen when Dean arrives, just next to the bar. She grins and waves him over. When he drops into the seat across from her, she immediately slides him a glass. “Since I couldn’t exactly order you a Long Island, I got you a Coke. You’re welcome.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Wow. You’re so generous. What would I ever do without you.”

Charlie tosses him a wink. “Without me, you’d be a lonely hermit trapped in your apartment all day, every day.”

She’s not completely wrong. Dean concedes the point with a shrug, then moves the conversation along. “So, we’re not here because you’re avoiding Finals Week stress, are we? Because I’ll have you know, I’ve actually been _incredibly_ productive today, and I expect nothing but the same from you, Bradbury.”

A brief look of panic crosses Charlie’s face, and though she’s quick to school it, Dean still has to laugh. It earns him a kick to the shin beneath the table, and a scrunched-up glare. “Shut it, Winchester. I’ll do my studying eventually. We’re here today for a different reason.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “And that is?”

Charlie’s gaze slides over Dean’s shoulder, and her grin returns. She says vaguely, “You’ll see.”

Dean frowns, but before he can question what the hell that’s supposed to mean, a pair of hands close over his eyes, and a light, teasing voice asks, “Guess who?”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Jo!” Dean slaps her hands away, his heart beating faster than he would ever admit aloud, courtesy of her jumpscare arrival. Once she’s let him go, he pins her with a glare. “You might think you’re funny, but you’re not, Joanna Beth. I’ve met your mother and I’m not afraid to tell her what your grades _actually_ look like.”

Instead of rising to the threat, Jo just scoffs and swats Dean on the shoulder. “Yeah, you can try, buddy. I know your weaknesses, too, so if you go to my mom, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

She turns and leans over the table to give her girlfriend a quick kiss, then materializes a small notebook and a pen, and that’s when Dean realizes what’s going on. A sly grin pulls at his lips.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You finally got a job, huh?”

“Not all of us have loaded bank accounts and roommates who cover the rent, Dean,” Jo shoots back without missing a beat. “I need spending money. Sue me. And considering I grew up waitressing at my mom’s bar…” She shrugs, then taps her pen against her notebook. “What can I get you guys?”

Charlie rattles off an order, and Dean chooses a meal nearly at random. Jo can’t stick around for long, since she has other tables to tend to, but she still promises to swing back by as frequently as she can. After she’s gone, Charlie stares after her with heart eyes.

“Damn,” she says on a wistful sigh, “I’m going to be spending so much time here from now on.”

Dean chuckles. He glances at Jo where she’s now helping another set of customers, and tries to see her like Charlie is clearly seeing her. Dean may not be into her, but it’s still not hard to do; he and Jo _almost_ had a thing, after all, before she and Charlie met and fell head over heels for each other.

From a lovebird’s perspective, Dean thinks he knows just what it is that Charlie likes so much about this job.

He purses his lips to keep himself from laughing. “It’s the uniform, isn’t it.”

Every waitress in the restaurant is wearing a short, black dress. They’re not identical, but the idea between each one is the same; a hem somewhere just above the knees, a modest-yet-attractive amount of cleavage. On Jo, the dress serves as a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin, and the lightness of her hair. Dean is perfectly capable of admitting that she looks _good_.

Charlie just sighs again, oblivious to Dean’s amusement. “Definitely the uniform.”

Dean snickers into his Coke, but lets Charlie have her moment unimpeded. It seems like the nice thing to do, right up until Charlie comes back to herself and says, “At least I’m not the one of the two of us with a full on uniform _kink_.”

Dean splutters and coughs, Coke getting caught in his windpipe. Charlie cackles.

“ _Fuck off_ ,” he eventually manages to get out. He continues to cough, face gone beet-red as he recovers, and Charlie is clearly loving every moment of it.

“I see you’re not objecting,” she says loftily, and god, Dean could _strangle her_. She idly stirs her straw through her drink, though the attempt at being casual is undermined by the wicked glint in her eyes. “How’s the Angel doing, anyway? He hasn’t really been seen much over the last few days, has he?”

The subject is meant to be a teasing one, Dean knows, but Charlie’s questions still make Dean’s mood drop. The West Seattle incident flashes back through his mind, with all of the accompanying questions bubbling back to the surface.

The Angel _hasn’t_ been seen much. Except for the incident which Dean is probably one among very few people, if he’s not _the only_ , to know about it. Thanks to his work in the forum, even if he isn’t the only person to have seen the picture of the Angel, he’s almost guaranteed to be the only one questioning the relationship between the Angel and the murdered West Seattle family.

Dean should probably read up more on that case, now that it’s had a day to settle and develop. It will probably take weeks for a full write-up of the incident to come out, seeing as it’s an active murder investigation, but at this point, any information is bound to be useful information.

Maybe. Probably.

Christ, thinking back to it makes Dean’s stomach turn all over again. He knows there has to be more to it than he realizes, but he has no desire to dig for those hidden nuances. Maybe he’ll let it sit for a while.

“...Dean?”

Dean looks up, surprised by the interruption to his spiraling thoughts. Charlie is staring at him, a look of fearful concern on her face. Dean can’t claim to know what it is she can see in his expression, but given the subject matter he’s been focused on, he’s sure her reaction is justified.

He ducks his head to hide his wince. “Sorry. Angel stuff is in a weird spot right now. There’s some people on the forums…”

“People aren’t picking fights with you again, are they?” Charlie asks, frown now turning sympathetic. It might actually be worse than her previous look. “Dean, I know I’ve said this before, but those forums are toxic…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, they suck.” Dean waves her off and drops his eyes down to his Coke again, this time rubbing the pad of his thumb through the condensation on the side of the glass. People _have_ picked fights with him on the forums before, usually over his decisiveness and self-given title of ‘professional’, but that hasn’t happened in a while. The other members on the forum have gotten used to him, and Dean has stopped flexing his knowledge in ways that will start fights to begin with. It can still be a toxic place, but Dean avoids that toxicity. Generally, he does alright.

The West Seattle incident could turn toxic, Dean realizes. He mentally marks the forums as another spot to avoid for the coming days.

He sighs heavily. “Listen, I don’t really want to talk about this one just yet, so let’s… Let’s change the subject. Alright?”

“Dean…”

“Charlie, I mean it.”

“No, I mean— _Dean_.”

Dean glances up, but Charlie is no longer looking at him. He frowns, not quite sure what’s happening—until he follows her gaze toward the bar.

There’s a flurry of raised voices down at the far end, and a man is standing up on his chair to change the channel on the TV mounted above him. Jo and one of her coworkers are standing beneath him, trying to urge him down. The next TV over has already been changed from sports to the news, whether by the same guy or someone else Dean doesn’t know, but as soon as he sees what is showing, he understands the need to get it on more TVs.

The current shot is a sweeping view of the Space Needle, shot from a helicopter circling the building. It would be picturesque, if it wasn’t for the red text emblazoned all across the screen reading _LIVE_ and _BREAKING_. The news anchors are talking frantically, too, but most of what they are saying is lost across the bar.

Dean slides out of the booth and lets himself be pulled toward the edge of the bar, getting as close to the TVs as he can. The staff has stopped protesting the channel changes, and each of the screens is now tuned to the news.

The helicopter moves in closer to the Space Needle. As it does, two figures come into focus, standing precariously on the structure’s topmost white disk. One of them is immediately recognizable; in the afternoon light, the Angel’s shadowy wings are easy to see, the outlines of them easily defined against the white beneath his boots even if their actual forms are invisible. Dean would be entranced, if the rest of the scene weren’t so thoroughly stress-inducing.

Because the other figure is a stranger. A stranger clad in a white tuxedo with a twisted, red mask covering his face. The devil horns protruding from the top of it are the only distinguishable traits over the distance between the Needle and the helicopter’s camera, but that one feature tells Dean plenty.

Not a normal stranger. A stranger like the Angel. A stranger with inhuman abilities, with an identity to hide, with an agenda. No average person would be standing where this guy is, on a tall building with no barriers, and with no access by foot.

It’s sickeningly fitting that the first person to rise up against the Angel like this would present himself as a devil.

Even across the news feed, the tension between the Angel and his opponent is a tangible thing. It sucks the air out of Dean’s lungs, deprives him of the ability to so much as think about anything else. In all the time the Angel has been active, something like this has never happened. It could mean so many different things, could go so many different ways—

Someone in the bar asks aloud, “What the hell are they doing?”

And then the fight kicks off.

The Angel is the first to move. His mouth moves with a scream (the other guy undoubtedly said something to provoke him, but his mask conceals any movements of his mouth, so the exact interaction is impossible to define), and then he hurls himself toward his opponent, propelled by an unseen burst of energy at his back. Just as they’re about to connect, though, the Devil (as Dean automatically coins him) neatly side steps him, and the Angel shoots directly off the edge of the platform.

The entire restaurant gasps. Dean sways forward, feeling weak in the knees, and grabs the railing that makes up the perimeter of the bar for support.

Despite how terrible the miss looked, though, the Angel isn’t thrown off for long. He whirls in mid-air and launches right back toward the Devil, blue-white lightning sparking along the length of his body. This time, the Devil doesn’t dodge; he braces himself a moment before the impact, widening his stance and turning his shoulder toward the Angel.

When they hit, the entire Space Needle shudders. Someone shouts, “Oh my god!”

A burst of light makes it hard to see what happens between the Angel and the Devil, but when the light clears, it’s easy to see that the Angel came out of it worse off than the Devil. They both tumble across the sloped surface they’ve made their battleground, but the Devil is the first to get back to his feet, while the Angel struggles to push himself up. The spot where they had collided is now marked with a dent; Dean can’t even begin to imagine what the city is going to do about _that_.

The Devil throws a punch at the Angel. The Angel catches it, tries to throw one of his own, then reels backwards when the Devil’s other other fist connects with his jaw. They trade more blows after that, the Angel landing some, but mostly getting hit. They get closer and closer to the Needle’s edge with every movement, the Devil advancing on the Angel without remorse.

Finally, they reach the edge. The Angel’s boot slips off of it, prompting him to scramble forward, but the Devil is already there. He catches the Angel by the neck and lifts him up, holding him out over the empty space like weighs nothing.

The Angel scrabbles at the hand on his throat. The Devil’s head tilts to the side, a predator assessing its prey before a kill.

Dean whispers, not entirely realizing that he’s doing it, “No. No, no, _no_.”

There are other sounds in the bar. Other people reacting similarly, all distressed at the sight of their hero being crushed, anxious to see how he’s going to pull a win out of this. How he’s going to pull a _miracle_ out, because that’s exactly what it’s going to take to get through this.

Although Dean is aware of it all, he can’t focus on it. He can’t care about anyone else, not when the Angel is on the brink of…

The news helicopter sways closer. The Devil’s head snaps up toward them, and even with his mask still in place, his anger is clear to see. He looks from the helicopter, to the Angel, then back again. Then he raises his free hand in the helicopter’s direction. There’s a burst of panic over the TVs, and the helicopter’s footage jerks as the pilot rushes to get away from the threat. Anyone who can beat up the Angel isn’t someone who should be underestimated.

Unfortunately, they don’t move fast enough.

The Devil twists his hand into a pantomime of a gun, and flicks it back like he’s firing a bullet. As soon as he does, the helicopter veers sharply off to the side. The footage whirls and blurs as the helicopter begins to spiral toward the ground, and the audio is taken over by blaring alarms and frantic shouting from the people on board.

And then the footage cuts, and the screen goes black.

Dean’s throat goes tight.

“Get it back!” one of the news anchors shouts. “Switch to another camera, get it back!”

The feed switches back to the main desk, giving viewers a brief look at the panicked anchors and the chaos which has erupted at their studio. A member of the crew, somewhere off screen, yells, “Get us _someone_ on the ground!”

Seconds later, the feed switches again, this time to a perspective at the base of the Space Needle. The helicopter is nowhere to be seen, but its absence says more than enough. No matter its fate, it can’t be good.

The camera operator turns the camera upwards and zooms in as much as they can, focusing in on the small outline of the Angel, still being held out over the edge. He’s struggling more than he had been before, but it doesn’t seem to be getting him anywhere.

Then, as the entire city watches, the Angel drops.

He plummets to the earth like a rock, completely dead weight. The camera wavers as it struggles to follow his trajectory; with every millisecond that passes, Dean is sure the Angel is going to catch himself. He’s positive it’s going to happen. At any moment, the hero will spread his not-wings and even himself out, then soar back up to the top of the building and kick the Devil’s ass once and for all. He _knows_ it will happen.

It doesn’t happen.

When the Angel hits, dirt is sent flying in every direction, erupting out of the small crater the Angel created. People on the ground scream, and the camera shakes. A reporter begins to hedge forward, stumbling over her words as she attempts to ask if anyone can see the Angel.

The Devil appears in front of the crater, seemingly out of thin air. He slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks as he looks down into the pit, and when he turns around to face the watching crowd, there’s an undeniable air of smugness to him. Everyone shies back, the person with the camera included. Only the single reporter remains ahead of the pack, standing her ground.

The Devil strolls forward, unbothered by the fear he is met with. “So this was the guy you were choosing to hide yourselves behind, huh?” He hooks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing toward the crater behind him. “This _Angel_. This fraud. You didn’t actually think he was unbeatable, did you?”

 _Yes_ , a voice in the back of Dean’s mind whispers. Because he _is_.

He was supposed to be. Wasn’t he?

The reporter, still ahead of the rest, trembles. Dean can feel her fear like it’s his own—probably because it _is_ , he’s fucking terrified right now—so he’s utterly amazed when she pulls herself up, squaring her shoulders as she faces the Devil.

“Whatever it is you want,” she calls, voice wavering only slightly, “you aren’t going to get it. Leave this city alone. Go back to whatever ditch you crawled out of.”

The cameraman calls out in warning, “Tessa…”

Behind the Devil, there’s movement that Dean can’t quite make out. It puts his heart in his throat, though, because it looks like… Could it be?

The reporter takes another step forward. The Devil merely watches her. “You don’t scare us. _Leave_.”

“If that’s what you really want,” the Devil says, his smirk clear in his voice. He stands there for another few seconds, then between one heartbeat and the next, he vanishes. Gone, like he was never there to begin with.

When he disappears, the Angel is revealed to be standing behind him. Dean feels a surge of relief, so strong that his knees buckle, but it turns out to be short-lived.

Because when the Devil disappears, the Angel is midway through an attack. His hands are extended, his eyes burning with blue light as lightning races along his fingertips and shoots forward. The energy bursts forward in the same instant that the Devil vanishes, and with the initial target gone, it finds the next one in its path.

The Angel’s eyes widen and he shouts, “No!” but it’s too late.

The attack hits the reporter directly and sends her flying back several feet. She doesn’t make a sound as the lightning surrounds her, but that’s undeniably worse than if she had screamed. It envelops her completely, lighting her up and sparking across her skin even after she has collapsed. No one says a word, but the weight of the situation is clear.

The Angel falls to his knees.

The silence in the bar is deafening.

 

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t know how he makes it home. He doesn’t remember much of anything, in fact, after the news finally cut to black and didn’t return. He thinks he saw Charlie one final time before he walked out of the restaurant, because he has a clear image in his mind of her tear-streaked face, but he doesn’t have anything else to go on.

As for himself—he thinks he might have walked home. It’s impossible to be sure, though, because the world as Dean knows it is crumbling, and the path he takes home is entirely irrelevant in the wake of such a catastrophe.

The Angel was beaten.

The Angel killed someone.

Dean doesn’t think that the image of the masked hero on his knees in devastation is one that he’ll forget any time soon.

When he gets back to the apartment, there’s a chill in his bones that could either be from the weather, the shock still coursing through his veins, or both. He doesn’t know which explanation is more likely, but it doesn’t make a difference, anyway. All he _does_ know is that once he sits himself on the couch, a blanket pulled around his shoulders and eyes fixed on a blank patch of wall, there is absolutely no chance of him getting up again.

And for the next several hours, that proves true. Beyond the living room windows, the sky gradually goes dark. There’s only a single light on in the apartment, but no matter how deep the shadows in the room become, Dean can’t bring himself to care enough to get up and go for a lightswitch. He sits, and he thinks, and he thinks some more.

He’s been feverishly following the Angel’s every move for two years. His entire college experience has hinged around the hero. A large part of his love for the city he now calls home stems from the Angel, too. Seattle and its Angel are inseparable in Dean’s mind.

The Angel saved Dean’s life.

For all of that to have led to this current stage, the scene that Dean witnessed today…

Dean doesn’t have the slightest idea where to begin with it.

Eventually, some indiscernible amount of time later, Dean’s swirling thoughts become too self-consuming to be allowed to continue in their vacuum. There’s too much he doesn’t know, too many questions he doesn’t have answers to. His mind is like an ouroboros, destroying itself with no end in sight.

He turns on the TV, desperate for a distraction. It’s still set on Food Network, from his _Chopped_ marathon with Cas; it’s the perfect offering of meaningless entertainment, and Dean is all for it. He lets himself get caught up in the overly-positive cheer of _Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives_ , and almost manages to pretend that he feels that in his own right.

On the commercial break, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps open the news. He needs to see the damage. He needs to _know_.

_Five Dead, Helicopter Crashed near Seattle Center; Angel, Guilty, Flees Scene_

Five. Dean clicks into the article and skims through to see who.

The reporter. Three people in the helicopter. A civilian who was killed as a result of the helicopter crash.

Jesus.

Dean reaches over the edge of the couch and deliberately drops his phone to the floor, putting it out of his reach. His head is spinning from just the basic facts of this mess; reading anything more is just going to make matters worse. His eyes lock back in on the TV, but this time, he doesn’t see anything that’s happening. The buzzing in his skull doesn’t allow for it.

As time continues to trickle onward, Dean eventually, miraculously, begins to doze off. He can feel it beginning to happen, a tiredness settling into his bones while the mess in his head finally quiets down, only voidspace left in its wake. He welcomes it, too; sleep is a perfect escape from the shit he’s dealing with. He can let it be a problem for tomorrow.

But of course, mere moments after Dean has accepted his fate, there’s a faint _thump_ at the front door. Dean’s eyes slide back open, and he listens hard for an explanation for the disturbance.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The sound of a key sliding into the lock is unmistakable, and although it doesn’t unlock right away, what that key _means_ is also obvious.

Dean wrenches himself upright and twists to look over the back of the couch, just in time for Cas to shuffle across the threshold. The sight of him brings a thousand questions to Dean’s mind—where the hell has he been all day? Why didn’t he answer Dean’s texts earlier in the day? Did he see the news?—but before any of them can be blurted out, Cas steps forward enough for the light to reach him. Once he emerges from the shadows, Dean doesn’t give a damn about any of the answers he might have sought.

Cas’ eyes are red-rimmed, and his cheeks are blotchy and tear-streaked.

Dean’s heart leaps into his throat. He moves on instinct, hurrying off the couch and around it to get to his friend. “Cas? Cas, man, what—What happened?”

It’s only once Dean speaks that Cas looks directly at him, and when their eyes meet, Cas looks stricken. Afraid. Dean doesn’t know what the hell to make of it, but the tightness in his chest crushes in closer, growing more suffocating by the second. He takes a half step forward, into the already slim space between them. He needs to make Cas’ tears stop, has to _help_ somehow.

But as soon as Dean moves, Cas stumbles backwards, maintaining their distance. He starts to sob anew, every breath rattling high in his chest as his emotions boil over.

“D-don’t,” he stutters out, the word jumping when his back connects with the apartment’s front door. “Don’t, I—I don’t deserve it. I’m a monster, I’m poison, I’ll just hurt you too, and I can’t, I _can’t_. I won’t.”

It all rushes together so quickly that Dean can’t even begin to hope to understand what Cas is talking about, but frankly, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Cas is scared and hurting, and that isn’t something Dean is capable of leaving be.

This time when he moves forward, he ignores Cas’ flinch. He sees it, of course, because there’s no way he couldn’t, and he feels it like a slap in the face, but not even the insult of his best friend reacting to him in such a way can stop Dean from doing what he needs to do.

And right now, that’s pulling Cas into a bone-crushing hug.

Dean is a tactile person by nature. He isn’t good at solving problems with words, and he probably never will be, but this? This he can do.

Cas resists it at first, struggling weakly against Dean’s hold and chanting, “No, no, _no_ ,” under his breath, but he breaks down in a matter of moments. His objections turn into wordless cries, muffled into the collar of Dean’s shirt as he clings to him like his life depends on it. He holds on so tightly that Dean feels his spine pop, and it becomes difficult for Dean to breathe for more than one reason.

But Dean doesn’t mind. Whatever happened, whatever caused Cas to shatter into a million pieces like this—he needs support, and Dean will gladly give it to him.

It’s what you do, for someone you love.

So Cas continues to cry, and Dean continues to hold him. They stay like that for quite some time, and when they move, it’s only because Dean guides Cas to sit on the living room floor before his knees can give out from under him. There, they sit side by side, backs to the couch and shoulders pressing together.

Cas eventually cries himself to sleep, his head bent down to rest on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean, though, remains wide awake.

It’s a long night.

 

 

 

 

It isn’t until Dean jolts awake that he realizes he fell asleep at all. There’s a kink in his neck, an uncomfortable soreness all down his back, and his right arm aches with pins and needles. He’s instantly miserable.

That is, until he turns his head and ends up with a faceful of dark, messy hair.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath.

Cas is still sleeping on his shoulder.

Cas… didn’t leave.

They’ve fallen asleep in the same room before, plenty of times. Before Dean moved into Cas’ apartment, Cas would frequently crash in Dean’s dorm, either on the room’s small couch or on the other half of Dean’s bed, when Benny was also in the room and Cas wanted to stay out of his way. They’ve fallen asleep on the couch together while watching movies. On one momentous occasion, they even shared Cas’ bed for a night while Charlie and Jo took Dean’s and Benny sprawled across the couch, after a Dead Week study night went too late and got far too boozy.

And yet, across all of those incidents and two damn years of friendship—Cas has never once still been there when Dean woke up.

There are times when that has been a depressing thing, since Dean has always been far too eager to be in Cas’ bubble and Cas, probably dating Balthazar like he is, has always been too polite to let Dean get the wrong idea. Or, dating Balthazar or not, he just flat-out doesn’t want to spend that sort of personal time with Dean. Or he’s just an early riser.

(Dean tends to tell himself it’s that final option, for obvious reasons.)

Point being, though, the fact that Cas hasn’t already disappeared is unprecedented.

And it really tells Dean that his best friend is even worse off than Dean already feared.

Despite how surprised he is by this turn of events, he is entirely willing to put up with everything he had initially labelled a discomfort. Sitting on the floor and sleeping upright may not have been great for him, but he’s not going to ruin the one good thing he has going.

But, that said, the pins and needles in his arm are _incredibly_ distracting. He shifts as carefully as he can and gently tries to extract his arm from where it’s pinned to his side under the weight of Cas’ sleeping body.

In response to the movement, Cas breathes a soft sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ll move. Just… give me another few moments.”

Maybe not sleeping, then.

Dean’s rescue attempt for his arm is immediately abandoned, and he turns his face a fraction of an inch closer to the top of Cas’ head—he doesn’t dare go any closer, what with how tempting it is to fully bury his nose in his best friend’s hair. “You’re fine. I didn’t realize you were awake, is all.”

Cas only hums in answer. A few beats of silence pass; Dean flexes his fingers against his thigh, willing his blood flow to return to them.

Dean’s lips brush against Cas’ hair when he asks, “You okay?”

For several long moments, Cas is silent. Then, “No.”

Dean swallows thickly. “What happened?”

“I…” Cas twists his hands together in his lap, erratic and nervous. Dean watches, oddly transfixed. “I don’t believe I want to talk about it.”

“I can understand that,” Dean says. “But… I think I’m gonna have to know what I’m dealing with, here. I’ve never seen you like this, man. I’ll go to Balthazar for answers if I have to, but then I’ll be getting _his_ version, so…”

At the mention of Balthazar, Cas finally sits up straight and scoots over a few inches. It’s not much, but after being so close for so long, even that small amount of space that Cas puts between them feels like a mile-wide rift.

Dean hates it with a passion. He clenches his hands into fists and digs his knuckles into his thighs, fighting back the urge to reach out.

“Don’t talk to Balthazar,” Cas spits, lips twisting into a scowl. “Whatever bullshit he might tell you is just that. And frankly, he can fuck himself.”

Dean blinks, startled by the burst of venom in his friend’s voice. “Did you guys have a fight?”

Cas casts him a quick, unreadable look, then returns to scowling at his hands. “Something like that.”

 _Oh_.

They fought. Maybe they broke up? Or whatever equivalent they may have had, given whatever boundaries may or may not have been on their relationship. Dean suspects they were more ‘friends with benefits’ than anything, since Balthazar flat-out told him that Cas grinds on other people at parties (and he definitely didn’t seem bothered by that fact), but a falling out could have still been pretty terrible. It could have still broken Cas’ heart.

And, knowing Cas’ coping mechanisms of choice, he probably then did a fair amount of drinking and/or smoking before stumbling his way home. Heartbreak plus a bad high or a bit too much vodka would certainly explain the fallout Dean witnessed.

What else could possibly mess Cas up enough to convince him that he’s poison?

All details of Cas’ meltdown aside, though, there’s one fact nestled in among the rest that Dean knows without any sort of doubt.

This was Balthazar’s fault.

A spark of rage ignites in Dean’s stomach at the thought. He knew he was right to not like Balthazar. He _knew it_. Of _course_ he would do something like this to Cas. That stupid, British bastard.

No matter how pissed off it makes him, though, Dean isn’t going to push that onto Cas. He trusts Cas to know how shitty it is, and turning it into something to be mad about is only going to make the entire mess worse. That’s not a good method of support, and it won’t do Cas any good.

So Dean takes a deep breath, forces his fists to unclench, and cautiously reaches out to lay a hand on Cas’ shoulder. He’s going to do this right. He’s going to be _supportive_.

“I’m sorry,” he begins. The simple statement earns him a confused look from Cas, so he rushes to explain, “For whatever happened, I mean. Since you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t ask, I promise. But it’s obvious that something happened to mess you up, and no matter what that was, I’m sorry for it, because you deserve a hell of a lot better.”

Cas’ shoulders slump beneath Dean’s hand, and something indescribable in his expression fractures. “Dean, you can’t say that. You don’t even know what…”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. You’re my best damn friend, and I know _you_. And I know I’m lucky to have you as a friend in the first place, too, because you’re awesome. So yeah. You deserve better. And you can’t change my mind on that, so don’t even try.”

And that’s when Cas breaks completely. He collapses in on himself, shoulders bowing as he drops his forehead to his knees and hides his face. He doesn’t seem to be crying, because he’s utterly still save for the steady rhythm of his breathing, but his grief is palpable anyway, hanging heavily in the air.

He’s like an imploding star. Beautiful, entrancing, devastating.

Dean’s heart aches for him.

He breathes a quiet sigh, then pushes himself up to his feet, joints creaking with every movement. “I’m going to go change,” he tells Cas, “then I’ll make us some breakfast, alright? Don’t go disappearing on me, and you might have some coffee in your future.”

Cas nods against his knees. He doesn’t look up, but Dean can’t fault him for that. He understands. He leaves Cas to sort himself out, sure that he’ll benefit from the chance to decompress.

And while Cas decompresses, Dean is definitely going to benefit from a clean set of clothes. He’s still wearing the outfit that he wore to lunch with Charlie, and though it’s comfortable enough, just jeans and a tee, it’s beginning to feel grimy. He needs to refresh himself. Get a new start for the new day he has fallen into.

Once he’s in his room, though, Dean abruptly finds himself rooted in place.

Because as soon as he’s in his room, all he can see is the Angel.

His corkboard, usually such a cause for pride, looms on his wall like a taunt. In his mind’s eye, Dean sees the footage from yesterday’s events all over again; the Devil holding the Angel by the throat, the Angel’s fall, his drop to his knees after the reporter was killed.

The corkboard hadn’t prepared Dean for any of that. He could spend hours talking about the science of the Angel’s abilities, thanks to the information he has gathered, could break them down to their most basic elements and explain how each and every aspect set the Angel up to be a perfect hero. Dean has _so much_.

And yet.

But now isn’t the time to get back into that. Dean wrenches his eyes away from the corkboard and focuses on getting into new clothes, because the sooner he does that, the sooner he can get back to Cas. And right now, that’s what matters. The Angel can wait.

Cas isn’t in the living room when Dean returns. His absence gives Dean a brief spike of panic, but—it’s fine. Totally fine. Just another disappearing act in a long line of the same; shouldn’t Dean be used to it by now? Why didn’t he expect this?

He doesn’t really know what to do, now. Does he continue with his promise to make breakfast, under the assumption that Cas will eventually return? Or does he make breakfast just so that when Cas comes back, whenever that may be, he can _see_ that Dean still cooked for him, and draw conclusions from there? But would there even be a point to that? What if Cas doesn’t—

“Dean?”

Dean jumps. “Jesus, Cas!” he shouts, clutching at his heart as he whirls around. “You scared the shit out of me! I thought you…”

He trails off, suddenly becoming aware of how shitty it is for him to admit out loud that he thought Cas ditched out on him.

Cas, for his part, merely looks contrite. Like he deserves to have Dean doubt him. “Sorry,” he says, ducking his head. “I was just, ah. Cold.” He shoves his hands into the pocket of his newly-donned sweatshirt in emphasis. The purple hoodie swallows him up, making him look smaller than Dean has ever seen him.

It’s a strange effect, and Dean stares for longer than he should.

Cas shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Did you… say you would make breakfast?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I…” Dean shakes his head to clear it, then forces a smile. “Breakfast is my treat today. Do you want to put something on the TV, maybe, while I whip us up some pancakes?”

Cas nods, then shuffles over to the couch to start fussing over the TV. Dean watches him for another moment, making sure he doesn’t look like a flight risk, then finally goes to the kitchen to fulfill his promise of breakfast. He returns twenty minutes later, two plates of pancakes in-hand; Cas accepts his with a small, grateful smile, and the two of them settle in on the couch to watch reruns of _Dr. Sexy M.D._

(The choice in show is obviously made more for Dean’s sake than for Cas’, but Dean doesn’t have the heart to argue over it. He’d wanted to have something on that would make _Cas_ feel better, for obvious reasons, but—he’ll just have to let the pancakes do what they can to heal him, instead.)

So they watch Dr. Sexy. They eat their pancakes.

And most notably, they don’t talk about it.

 

 

 

 

The rest of the weekend passes in much the same way, with Dean doing what he can to keep Cas happy and distracted from his woes, and Cas… well. Cas holds pretty steady, too.

Dean tells himself that that’s a good thing, because at least Cas isn’t getting _worse_. Truth be told, though, Dean is still worried for him. And how could he not be? Cas is quiet, reclusive (save for when Dean forces him into some meaningless conversation), and not at all himself. He’s like a shadow of the person he normally is, hollowed out by his falling out with Balthazar.

Despite how worried Dean is, though, he refuses to let Cas’ melancholy change anything about their dynamic, so he stays stubborn and pushes through it. Aside from the additional efforts he has to make to ensure that Cas eats, Dean treats him just like he always would.

Meaning, he forces Cas to watch Star Wars, pressures him about his schoolwork, and on Monday night, even kicks Cas’ ass in Mario Kart. For the most part, Dean operates under the assumption that it’s best to act normal. If he can ground Cas, show him that life goes on, then maybe Cas can come back to himself.

Judging by the way Cas grumbles over his racing defeat, Dean suspects he’s on the right path.

One of the strangest parts of heartbroken-Cas, though, is that as the days tick by, he’s always home. There are a few instances wherein Cas disappears when Dean isn’t looking, prompting Dean to assume that Cas is then gone for the next few hours, but it never lasts for more than a few moments. From what Dean can tell, the farthest Cas goes from the apartment is either campus or the Trader Joe’s down the way.

It adds support to the theory that Cas and Balthazar—or, Calthazar, as Dean has taken to calling their relationship in his head, mainly so that he can avoid thinking Balthazar’s name any more than is strictly necessary—are no more. Cas obviously likes partying and all that comes with it, since it’s something he’s done for years now, but he also always did it _with_ Balthazar, and Dean knows from experience that there’s no limit on what habits can be abandoned when it means avoiding an ex.

(In high school, Dean stopped going to his all-time favorite diner because his ex-girlfriend Rhonda worked there. They had the best pecan pie in the world, but giving it up was far less painful than a potential, awkward run-in with the girl who gave him a lifelong panty kink. Dean shudders even just thinking back to the one time he _did_ see her there.)

Point being, it’s not unrealistic for Cas to change his ways for the sake of staying away from Balthazar. Dean can’t question it too much, under that kind of logic.

But he’s still used to Cas being a flake, so having him around without interruption for the first time since they met is weird, and will probably keep being weird for a while.

Dean finds himself wondering just how long it will hold, then immediately feels guilty for hoping the answer will be _forever_.

Whether the change will be a lasting one or not, though, Dean knows one thing for sure.

He can’t wait for Cas to be _Cas_ again, in all of the other ways that matter. Not quiet, or subdued. Just Cas.

Because depressed Cas is, well. Depressing.

But days continue to pass, and none of them bring any sign of change. One week fades into the next, and all that changes is the amount of stress that school puts on Dean’s shoulders. Dead Week—appropriately named for what damage it does to the soul—is always a bitch, and this quarter proves no exception to that rule. The only way it differs from past quarters is that Dean isn’t carrying stress for Cas as well as for himself, since this time, he knows for a fact that Cas is attending his classes and using the time between them to study diligently.

Cas is holed up in his room doing just that when, at the end of Dead Week and exactly two weeks after the Angel and the Devil’s fight at the Space Needle, everything changes yet again.

Dean is lounging on the couch, idly browsing the internet while some nonsense game show plays on TV instead of studying for his upcoming finals like he really, _really_ should be, when his phone pings with a familiar notification. One he hasn’t heard in longer than he realizes, until he hears it again now.

His alert for Angel-related news.

Dean pulls his phone out, unsure of what he’s going to find on the screen right up until he reads the waiting headline.

It’s not something he ever would have seen coming.

_Armed Robbery Without Consequences; Woman Dead_

The subtitle for the article is even worse.

_Where is the Angel?_

If a woman was killed during a robbery, Dean can’t blame anyone for asking that question. Over the last few years, that is exactly the kind of crime that the Angel has fought against. Dean has tracked crime rates in Seattle since he moved here, and yet even he can’t say when the last casualty of this kind was, anywhere in the Angel’s standard domain.

So where _was_ the Angel?

Dean noticed that the hero hasn’t been seen since the incident with the Devil, but until now, there also haven’t been any Angel-worthy incidents. The entirety of the Puget Sound area has been quiet, like even the criminals have been hiding out in the wake of the shock of what happened.

But if someone has been killed, then that quiet stretch has evidently been broken.

And if the Angel didn’t reappear, then there has to be more to his absence than a lack of crime in need of fighting.

A cold fear makes itself at home in Dean’s stomach as he turns the TV over to the news. The anchors are already covering the story, since it’s bound to be the most interesting thing to happen today, and it plays out exactly how the headline made it sound like it would.

A man walked into a convenience store in Ballard with a gun in his hand, a scarf concealing his face, and a determination to get what he wanted. Footage from the store’s security cameras show the cashier giving up the money in the register without a fight, while further back in the store, a woman made a frantic (and appropriately subtle) call to 911. When the robber eventually turned to make his escape, the same woman made an attempt to stop him, lunging at him before he could reach the door and tackling him to the ground. She nearly succeeded in stopping him, but then he shoved his handgun up against her abdomen and pulled the trigger. He ran out the door, and the police pulled up moments later.

According to the news anchors, the woman died shortly after reaching the hospital.

It’s like extra insult to an already shitty situation.

After the news has covered the basics of the robbery, they advance to talking about the Angel. The subtitle Dean saw on his phone makes a return, now written in large letters across the bottom of the screen.

Where is the Angel?

A street interview with someone who witnessed the Ballard robbery focuses in on the question, and once that bit ends, the anchors and some ‘expert’ Dean has never heard of discuss it further. Everyone wants to know where the Angel was today. Why he failed to help. How, in this current day, the golden age of miracles, an innocent woman could be allowed to die in such a meaningless crime.

It’s a natural progression for them to then branch from that perceived failure back to the incident of two weeks ago. It has already been discussed to death, with everyone in the damn city convinced that _their_ opinion on the Angel’s ‘fall’ is the one that needs to be heard most, but this is the spark to the gasoline, reigniting the argument like the last two weeks never happened.

“People shouldn’t have learned to depend on him.”

Dean turns to see Cas standing beside the couch, his arms folded tightly across his chest and a vacant look on his face. If it weren’t for the venom in his voice, Dean wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what is going on inside his head.

But as it is, he knows that Cas is pissed.

Dean feels cold. “Cas, I don’t think that’s fair…”

Cas’ face twists into a scowl, and though he doesn’t take his eyes off of the TV, the way they narrow makes it clear he is only barely resisting the urge to glare at Dean directly. “What isn’t fair, Dean, is the fact that this entire city has come to expect someone they don’t know to swoop in and solve all of their problems. They gave him too much responsibility, and far too much power. And look what has happened for it. A woman is dead and a dangerous criminal got away because everyone involved expected the Angel to appear. And who is now being held responsible? Not the criminal. Not the police.”

He’s right. Dean hates it with a passion, but damnit, he’s _right_. Not about all of it, but at least about the expectations, the responsibility.

Because even if the city is used to the Angel’s intervention… Why is his absence something for him to be blamed for? Why is _he_ the one being put on trial by the public when, as Cas said, the robber or even the police who responded should be held responsible for the robbery’s miserable end. The robber shouldn’t have been in that store, and shouldn’t have used lethal force. It might not be fair, but it could also be argued that the police should have responded quicker, or that the paramedics who took the woman to the hospital should have done their jobs better to preserve her life.

Yet the only one being held accountable is the Angel.

It’s absolute bullshit, and now that Cas has pointed it out, it’s enough to make Dean’s stomach turn.

He wets his lips and looks back toward the TV, tearing his eyes away from the stiff, anger-lined set of Cas’ shoulders. “Yeah, I… I get what you mean. But I think they really just need something to talk about, you know? And since the Angel hasn’t been around, they need an excuse to bring him back up. He just. Y’know. Gets people hyped, and the news outlets need views.”

But unfortunately, Dean is just as guilty as the rest of them for giving into that. Criticizing clickbait strategies makes him feel like a hypocrite, so the attempted defense comes out hollow.

Cas doesn’t seem to care for that excuse, anyway, if his answering scoff is anything to go by. “They depended on him too much,” he reiterates. “And he stopped earning that the moment that—” He stumbles, like he doesn’t quite know how to reference the Devil. The moniker has caught on, but Dean isn’t surprised that Cas hasn’t heard it. “—that other man defeated him. No _hero_ kills a woman in cold blood like he did. There were five deaths that day, Dean, _five_ , and every one of them sits squarely on his shoulders.”

Cas pauses in his rant to take a deep, steadying breath. Dean’s eyes slide back toward him; Cas’ arms are still crossed, but despite that, Dean can see the way his friend is trembling with rage. A tense moment passes before Cas delivers his final verdict.

“The Angel isn’t a hero, and this city needs to realize that. The sooner they learn to live without him, the better off everyone will be.”

And with that, Cas turns on his heel and goes back to his room. Dean is left reeling in his wake, startled to his core by what Cas has suggested.

The Angel may have made a mistake, but Dean isn’t ready to say that the man isn’t a hero. He doesn’t think that is something he will _ever_ be ready for. No matter what happened, either two weeks ago or today, Dean still owes the Angel everything, and the significance of that is never going to change.

Even the best people make mistakes. The Angel is in good company, on that front.

But…

Admittedly, most people’s mistakes don’t end with a death toll. And if the Angel is now being criticized just for being _absent_ , on top of all the other fire that has rained down on him lately…

Maybe some of Cas’ points have some validity to them.

But just like Dean isn’t ready to denounce the Angel’s status of _hero_ , he most certainly isn’t ready to simply live without the Angel. Seattle’s dependency may be problematic, but going cold turkey shouldn’t be the only solution to that.

Dean’s thoughts continue to swirl, but eventually, the ongoing news coverage redraws his attention. Or, rather, one particular question does.

“Where do you believe the Angel is?”

The so-called expert—the ridiculousness of this random guy having that title makes Dean scoff—makes a show of thinking it over, fingertips drumming against the desk. “My fear,” he ultimately says, “is that today’s absence will start to confirm what many people are already predicting.”

The same anchor who asked the initial question nods along, looking wholly engrossed. She prompts, “And what are people predicting?”

The expert shrugs. “That the Angel is dead.”

An indescribable emotion lances through Dean, sucking all of the air out of his lungs. The Angel can’t be—no. _No_. That doesn’t make sense.

The expert— _fraud_ —lets his declaration hang in the air, the tension of it growing with every second that passes. The two anchors beside him look shocked, yet he waits until they begin to question him to provide an explanation.

“The Angel as we have known him, at least,” the man clarifies. “He experienced a major setback, and we haven’t seen him since. Through his failure he may as well have died. I’d be surprised if we saw the Angel again, without him having undergone some serious personal restructuring.”

He lets another beat pass, like the dramatic bastard he clearly is. “Though, he may be dead in a literal sense, as well,” he goes on to say. “The Devil launched what was clearly a targeted attack, designed to rid our city of the man who propped himself up as our protector. The Devil bested the Angel in combat while we were all watching, so it is entirely possible that he finished the job at a time when none of us were around to see it. Given the abilities we saw the Devil utilize, anything is possible.”

Anything _is_ possible. Dean knows that as well as anyone. And, jackass fraud or not, the news’ ‘expert’ might actually have some decent points.

They’re equally as valid as Cas’, at any rate. And they seem to be coming from similar standpoints, too.

Maybe that’s why both arguments are causing Dean so much pain.

He doesn’t want to hear any more of what the random idiots on the news have to say, so he turns off the TV and sits for a few moments in silence. He tries to process everything, but—can something like this truly be processed? How do normal people cope when they hear that their hero, their icon and savior, is dead? Literally or figuratively, it makes no difference. If the Angel is truly gone, then…

Then… what? Then the city suffers, and no one else is saved from senseless crimes? No robberies will be stopped, no monorails with be kept from crashing. No one being mugged in dark, rainy alleyways will have a bullet stopped before it can reach their heart.

Dean shoves up off of the couch and stomps to his room. He slams the door shut behind himself, heedless of how loudly the action reverberates through the apartment, then throws himself into the chair in front of his desk.

The corkboard. He needs the corkboard, and he needs the answers it holds. He needs something _solid_ right now, not flimsy opinions and bullshit predictions.

So he stares at his corkboard, soaking in all of the information it has to offer. He knows the Angel better than anyone, and right now, he’s sure that has to count for something. After he’s exhausted the corkboard, he makes a brief return out to the living room to grab his laptop, then props it on his desk and opens a number of tabs, each one honed in on one particular subject.

The Angel’s fight against the Devil.

Dean has looked at it over the last few weeks, but right now, he digs into it in full, picking apart every minute detail. He needs to understand. He needs to _know_.

He dedicates the next several hours to his task, and as he works, an idea begins to take shape in his mind. It’s vague at first, barely a tangible thing, but as his understanding of the Angel’s fall becomes more concrete, so does his budding idea.

Maybe the Angel is gone. Maybe he will be back, maybe he won’t.

Maybe the city shouldn’t have grown so dependent on a stranger in a mask.

But maybe now is the time for someone to replace him.

 

 

 

 

After the robbery in Ballard, local crime rates skyrocket. The Angel didn’t show then, and when more thieves and rapists and murderers test the waters, his absence only continues. It may as well be open permission for them to do as they please. No one fears the police, so without the Angel, there is no chance of keeping the city safe.

A few people are killed, while many more are injured. The news takes to calling it a plague, and just as with the first robbery, the Angel is held more accountable than any.

Though, as the next few days pass, the city becomes more and more convinced that the Angel is truly dead and gone. The hero they all came to love would not abandon them to this fate otherwise.

Or so they’re all so desperate to believe. Dean isn’t quite as confident himself, but he does agree with the basis of the city-wide conclusion.

The Angel isn’t coming back.

But the city still needs _someone_.

And, two years ago, Dean did technically make the Angel a promise.

 _I owe you one_ , he had said. And this—this is the culmination of that debt.

He pulls out a notebook and pen, and gets to work.


	3. The Hunter

 

Dean was fortunate enough to only have scheduled exams on Tuesday and Wednesday of Finals Week this quarter, so when he starts his sketching on Wednesday night, he has no interruptions ahead of him. He sketches, makes notes, writes shortlists, and by late Thursday night, he’s ready.

Or, he knows what he _needs_ to be ready, at least. He has his plan, solid in every way it possibly can be, but actually transforming sketches into reality is going to take a hell of a lot longer than one, single day. Still, he has enough prepared to have realistic expectations about what he’s getting into, and that means he also knows what one thing he’s going to need above everything else.

He’s going to need help.

And that’s how he ends up texting Charlie at three in the morning, on the Friday of Finals Week. It’s the ultimate sin.

But of course, he does it anyway.

 

 **[Sent 3:07am]** _Hey, you don’t have any finals today, do you? Can you come over, about 10?_

 **[Received 3:15am]** _dude. why are you up._

 **[Sent 3:17am]** _I’ll explain at 10. I’ll have coffee ready._

 **[Received 3:23am]** _you’re the worst friend ever. this couldn’t have waited until morning, huh?_

 **[Received 3:25am]** _you BETTER have coffee. and this better be good. my girlfriend has a knife collection, you know._

 

Dean rolls his eyes at Charlie’s closing threat, but doesn’t bother to give her a response. Given the hour, he isn’t going to push his luck. He puts his phone aside and tries to catch a few hours of sleep, though he’s too pent-up to get much. By the time ten o’clock rolls around, Dean is back up and ready to go, flipping through his pages of notes and trying not to be nervous.

Because he knows damn well that Charlie’s going to kill him for this.

A few minutes before ten, Cas says goodbye to Dean and leaves to go take his last test on campus. Dean smiles and wishes him luck, then hurries over to the coffee pot to pour Charlie a mug. He does it just in time, too; the moment he’s finished adding creamer, there’s a knock on the front door, and it’s showtime.

“This better be important, Winchester,” Charlie says the second Dean opens the door, eyes squinted in what may just as likely be anger or concern.

Dean gives her a tight smile in answer, and passes over the mug of coffee as a peace offering. Her eyes narrow further as she accepts it, and—yeah, that’s definitely concern.

“I gotta show you something,” he tells her, then grabs her by the elbow and leads her into the apartment and over to the table. “Just, uh… hear me out. Okay?”

And so he tells her. He walks her through every page of his sketching, and details the logic behind it all. The outfit. The defenses, the abilities. The technology he can make and the technology he still needs. It takes him nearly half an hour to get through it all. When he’s finished, Charlie looks shell-shocked. Dean waits, plenty willing to let her process all that he has thrown at her.

Eventually, she looks up from the final sketch Dean has shown her, an unreadable look on her face. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“Dean, you _have_ to be joking. You’ve lost your mind!”

Dean pulls a face. “Come on, Charlie, give me some credit. Do you really think I would take this kind of thing lightly?”

Charlie throws her hands up, exasperated. “You can’t just _become_ a superhero, Dean! I don’t care how obsessed you were with this guy, replacing him is _not_ the right thing to do. The Angel had actual, genuine powers, and you don’t—I mean, you just have—” She makes a vague gesture toward the notebook.

Dean sighs and pulls the book toward himself. “I know the Angel’s powers inside and out, and that means I can replicate them. Or, near enough. I’ve studied every public fight the Angel has ever had, Charlie. I know what he had at his disposal, what he needed in specific situations, and what he lacked.”

He watched footage of the Angel’s fight against the Devil until his eyes burned and then some. He knows every detail by heart, now, and from that, he knows what _he_ will need to prevent the exact same thing from happening.

For the most part, the Devil simply outmatched the Angel. He was faster, more ruthless, and in the end, that is what caused most of the Angel’s woes. He couldn’t gain the upper hand. Once the Devil grabbed hold of him, the Angel had no hope of escaping. The hand around his throat was an iron bar, unshakable and deadly.

So Dean will have a method of ensuring no one gets their hands on him. No one will _keep_ their hands on him.

Or else they might just risk losing their hands all together.

Dean considers his sketch for another moment. The pencil version is rudimentary at best—Dean is no artist—but the vision of it he has in his mind is much better. It’s much more real, and that means it’s _attainable_.

“I can do this, Charlie,” he says without looking up. “This city needs someone, and if the Angel is gone, that someone might as well be me. Crime rates are already reaching levels this city hasn’t seen in decades, so what else are we supposed to do? Sit around and wait for someone else to step up? Someone with _powers_? Because the only other person with powers is the guy who killed the Angel, and I don’t see how _he_ is going to get us anywhere but in more shit.”

Charlie lets Dean make his plea without interruption, and she remains silent long after he has finished. It forces him to look up, because despite how how determined he is to pursue this, he needs validation more than he could ever admit out loud.

He finds Charlie staring at him, a calculating look on her face. She softens as soon as their eyes meet. “Are you sure this is what you want to do? I don’t think you can take this sort of thing back, you know. No changing your mind.”

Dean swallows hard. “Yeah.” His voice cracks on the word, so he restarts, tries again. “Yeah, I’m sure. I have to do this, Charlie.”

Charlie sighs, but by some miracle, her lips turn up into a smile. “Alright, then. Tell me what you need me to do. Let’s do this.”

Relief hits Dean so hard he feels like he could cry with it. He sags against the table, suddenly overwhelmed with the knowledge that—this is real. He’s doing this. And as Charlie said, there’s no going back.

He thinks that might be okay.

He grins across the table at Charlie, excitement beginning to take root. “Let’s do this.”

 

 

 

 

They spend the next few hours discussing Dean’s plans in detail, delving into every element and picking it all apart. For the most part, Charlie is impressed by how thorough Dean was, but she still finds the occasional place to make a suggestion for improvement, and Dean welcomes each one.

After all, that _is_ in part why he wanted to bring her into this. Dean is the spirit behind it, and he’s confident he’ll be able to make his ideas come together as they need to, but he’s only one person. Plus, he’s just an engineer; a glorified mechanic, as far as the building of this suit is going to be concerned.

Charlie is a fresh perspective. Where Dean can build artificial superpowers, Charlie can code the supporting systems that Dean will need to supplement them. As she herself mentions, she’ll probably even be able to steal him some blueprints to supplement the already on-the-fly engineering he’s going to be doing. Everything that Dean can’t do, Charlie can.

He’s the hands, the muscle; Charlie is the brains.

It’s why they make such great friends, and also why Dean already knows that this is going to be a great partnership.

Eventually, Charlie sits back in her chair, her latest cup of coffee held close to her chest. “I think if we both work on this over break, we’ll be set to have you make your debut by about… I dunno, mid-January? Depending on how quickly you can get all the materials you need, that is.” She takes a sip of her coffee, then arches an eyebrow at Dean. “How are you planning on funding this?”

Dean’s mouth twitches, a hint of a wince. “I can dip into the money my parents left me. It’s not ideal, I know, and I’ll try not to blow through it, but I have a pretty good chunk of change sitting in my account. I can afford to fund this without ruining my prospects too much.”

“Bet this is the last thing your parents expected to come from that life insurance check, huh?”

“Probably.”

“Thank god for financial stability,” Charlie jokes. Then, her smile grows even wider. “You know, there’s one last thing you’ll need, and you haven’t mentioned it.”

“What?” Dean frowns at the papers scattered all across the table, filled with his own writing and now new additions from Charlie. It’s thorough, Charlie has already said so herself. So what the hell is she talking about? “I’m not missing anything. I’ll have the suit, I’ll have defenses, I’ll be able to incapacitate people. I’ll even be able to call for help if I—”

“ _Dean_.” Charlie is outright grinning now, far too amused by Dean’s confusion. “Every hero has to have a name, genius. What are you going to call yourself?”

That brings Dean up short. He’s been so concerned with the technical aspects of becoming a hero that he hadn’t thought about the PR side of it. Obviously that’s why Charlie is laughing at him, now.

But—shit. What _will_ he call himself?

Before he can even begin to come up with an answer, the front door opens. Charlie glances up, blinking in the direction of the door without concern, but Dean leaps out of his chair and scrambles to clear the table, closing his notebook and gathering what loose papers he can into a pile so that their contents are concealed. The last thing he needs is for Cas to see any of this.

Charlie gives him a knowing look, and hides her laugh in a cough. “Hi, Cas,” she calls. “How’d your final go?”

Dean scowls at her, but finishes hiding his stacks of notes just in time for Cas to wander over to the table. His bag is still slung over his shoulder and his hair is wind-whipped, and his cheeks are red from the cold; looking at him momentarily takes Dean’s breath away, and it isn’t until Charlie clears her throat that he remembers what it is he was doing.

Every scrap of paper in his hands is incriminating. He needs to get rid of it. Right.

He stalls another moment before he moves, though, so Cas’ eyes land on the stack. His brows pull together in a frown. “What is all that?”

“Oh, Dean was just—” Charlie starts to say, but Dean blurts out over her, “Nothing! It’s nothing.”

Cas squints at them both. “This… does not sound like nothing. Dean, what’s going on?”

Dean gulps. “How was your final?”

Cas’ lips press thin, and the look he gives Dean makes it perfectly clear that he isn’t impressed by the change in subject. The fact that he lets it be changed anyway, then, is nothing short of a miracle. “The exam was alright,” he says, expression smoothing back out. “Certainly not as painful as it could have been, nor as tragic as it was for some of the other students. I was well prepared.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “That sounds about right. And let me guess, you were probably one of the first to finish, too, huh? You’re probably lucky you made it out of that hall without someone who _isn’t_ a natural genius shanking you when you walked past.”

Cas’ cheeks colour with embarrassment, but he can’t deny Dean’s assumptions. “I’m not a ‘natural genius’,” is the only protest he tries to make, but it’s far too weak to be convincing.

Dean laughs again. “Sure, buddy.” He claps a hand to Cas’ shoulder as he passes en route to the hallway, grinning brightly all the while. As he hides his notes in his bedroom, securely locking them in a drawer in his desk, he hears Cas heave a sigh and turn his attention to Charlie.

“How were your finals? I assume you’re finished for the quarter?”

“Yeah, I’ve been done since Tuesday. And not to brag, but I’m pretty sure I rocked this quarter. These classes are a cakewalk.”

Cas chuckles. “I thought you would say something like that. If you finished on Tuesday and are still in the dorms, are you not going home for the holidays?”

Dean walks back into the living room before Charlie can answer, so he says for her, “She’s leaving, she’s just a hopeless romantic who’s waiting for her girlfriend to sit her last test today so they can go together. They’re going to spend Christmas with Jo’s family.”

Charlie gives him a withering glare. Despite the poison in the look, though, there is nothing but exaggerated sweetness in her voice when she says, “Oh, yes, I am _such_ a hopeless romantic, Dean, you’re right. That’s why I’ve waited here all week, when I otherwise might have gone home sooner. Everyone knows it’s best to fly out as soon as possible, and yet—oh, Dean! That’s right!” She puts a hand to her chest, faking surprise. “You chose to fly out at the end of the week, too! Even though you’ve been done since… Wednesday. Right? But if I waited because I’m a hopeless romantic, then I can assume that you waited because…?”

Dean blanches, knowing all too well what she is implying. So maybe he _had_ intentionally flown out late in the week, because he maybe knew that Cas would have a late final and he maybe _hoped_ that he would be able to talk his roommate into going to South Dakota with him, despite Cas’ regretful insistences that it would be best if he stayed in Seattle over the break.

But he knows for a fact that he never told Charlie that, because it’s not something that was meant to be _said out loud_.

Dean hopes to god he doesn’t sound as faint as he feels when he snaps, “Fuck off, Charlie.”

Cas glances between the two of them, frowning once again. “You chose to fly home on Saturday because flights were cheaper,” he states. Charlie’s vague suggestions are clearly throwing him, though, because his confidence dissolves immediately. “...Right?”

“Yes,” Dean says, too loudly. “Saturday was the cheapest flight, and I wanted to save a couple bucks. Don’t listen to Charlie, she’s just being a dick.” He emphasizes the jab by snatching up a blank piece of paper leftover from their brainstorming session, balling it up, and launching it at Charlie’s head.

She swats it away with an annoying amount of ease. “Right, sure,” she says, still so infuriatingly nonchalant, and no less pleased with herself. “Cheapest flight. But anyway!” She claps her hands together and stands from her chair. “As fun as this is, I should get going. Jo’s going to be done with her final any time now, and I have to be ready to head to the airport when she gets back to our room. So! Cas, it was good to see you, as always.”

She pulls Cas into a hug which, as Dean can see from his vantage point on the other side of the table, makes Cas absolutely melt. It’s adorable, and Dean ducks his head to hide his smile.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Cas says softly, “it’s always good to see you, too.”

Their hug lasts for another few moments, then Charlie withdraws and starts backing toward the door. “Thanks for the coffee, Dean,” she adds. “And I’ll be in touch, okay? Keep an eye on your email.”

“Sure thing, Charlie.” Dean lifts his hand in a wave, choosing to ignore the fact that he sees Cas mouth the word, _email_? “And thank you. Really.”

Charlie tosses him a Vulcan salute, then lets herself out of the apartment. Dean smiles after her, but without her, the silence in the apartment becomes incredibly loud. Dean fidgets, feeling more awkward than he rightfully should.

“So, uh,” he starts, needing _some_ kind of conversation, but Cas beats him to it.

“You leave in the morning, right?”

Dean blinks. “Um. Yeah. My flight’s at nine tomorrow.”

Cas nods, eyes dropping to the table. “Right. Of course. I’m glad that you’re going to see your family, that sounds… fun.” He clears his throat, and glances back up at Dean for a fraction of a second before looking back down. “Are you packed?”

“I’m… getting to that point,” Dean answers, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I’ll do it tonight. Or right now, actually. Time’s kind of… gotten away from me.”

“Because of your secret project with Charlie?” Cas asks. Dean’s head snaps up, fear rushing through him at the possibility that he’s been caught, or that he’s going to have to _lie_ —but Cas just shakes his head. “I’m not going to ask. I can respect a secret, Dean.”

“Oh.” No need to panic, then. Great. Dean clears his throat. “Okay. Thank you.”

Cas nods. “Of course.”

A beat passes. Neither of them moves.

Cas begins to pick at a loose thread at the side of his jeans. “Remind me how long you are going to be in Sioux Falls?”

“Until the twenty-ninth. Two weeks from Sunday.”

Cas’ frown deepens. “That’s a long time.”

Dean swallows hard against the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah. Guess it is.” He waits another second, watching as Cas continues to fidget, then says before he can talk himself out of it, “You’ve still got an open invitation to go with, you know. Bobby would love to have you. I know you like to stay here over breaks, and I know you already said no for Christmas, but I mean, if you change your mind—”

Cas muffles a cough in his hand. “I, ah—perhaps I _have_ changed my mind. Is that. Would that be alright?”

“You—?” Dean barks a laugh of disbelief. “Cas, are you kidding me? I just said that you have an open invitation, of course it’s alright. That’s literally what that means.”

He does realize, of course, that taking Cas along with him to Sioux Falls for winter break will make it difficult for him to get a good start on his hero suit, but—he can manage. All things considered, it’s a small price to pay for a trip home spent with Cas at his side. It’s worth knowing that Cas is happy for two weeks, instead of moping alone in their apartment.

(Or, as Dean would have feared only a few weeks ago, drinking and drugging his way toward an early death. Funny how so much can change in such a short amount of time.)

The way Cas beams at Dean makes it pretty damn worthwhile, too.

“I suppose we should both go start packing, huh?”

 

 

 

 

By the time winter break is over and Dean and Cas return to their apartment, it feels like an eternity has passed. A good eternity—spending time at home is always a relief, and having Cas there for Christmas was just as great as he had hoped (taunting texts from Charlie notwithstanding)—but an eternity nonetheless.

He’s incredibly happy to be home.

Still, it was a good two weeks. Bobby grumbled about the last-minute tag-a-long, which made Cas suitably embarrassed, but that didn’t last beyond the first day. It hardly lasted the first hour, really; Bobby was won over by Cas just as easily as he was the first time they met, and once Sam was added to the mix, when they got home from the airport, Bobby’s surliness really didn’t stand a chance. Sam was thrilled to have Cas with them, and not even the deadliest scowl in Bobby’s arsenal can stand up in the force of that kid’s enthusiasm.

Christmas itself was great, too. They had good food and better company, and ended the night with a drunken binging of the Die Hard movies.

Well—Dean was drunk. Bobby had long since gone to bed by then, and Dean cut Sam off after a single beer. And Cas, for his part, had actually avoided alcohol altogether, which of course Dean wasn’t going to fight. What was he going to do, force his previously-borderline-alcoholic best friend to drink when he didn’t want to? Not a chance in hell.

But still. It was a good Christmas, and a well-used break from the everyday bullshit Dean has gotten so used to dealing with.

Plus, as it turned out, Bobby’s garage had some _great_ resources to offer, and Dean didn’t hesitate to take advantage of them. The culmination of those resources is now tucked safely into Dean’s luggage, where he fully expects to find a TSA inspection slip as soon as he unpacks. Despite how much it currently resembles a pile of scrap metal and shoddy wiring, though, Dean is ridiculously proud of how much he managed to put together during just his occasional stolen moments of solitude in Sioux Falls. He could have done even more if he wasn’t constantly hiding the entire project, but, well. He’ll take what he can get.

Their first day back home is lost to lounging around and readjusting to their own time zone, which is certainly a sacrifice of time that Dean is willing to make. He and Cas play a couple rounds of Mario Party, then switch over to nature documentaries when they’re too tired to keep up a competitive spirit. Cas, adorable dork that he is, is thrilled to watch some random program about birds of prey that Dean finds playing on National Geographic. He talks along with it for a time, adding his own store of information to the documentary’s, right up until he falls asleep.

And when he falls asleep, he falls asleep hard, one hand draped off the side of the couch, and his legs extended the couch’s length so that his feet can press against Dean’s thigh. His breaths are slow and deep, and the soft lines of his face are far more interesting to Dean than the rambling voice of the National Geographic narrator.

While they were in Sioux Falls, Cas was interesting to watch. He came alive around Bobby and Sam, only returning to his quiet stints of introspective depression when he didn’t think anyone was looking. Dean kept him from it well enough, interrupting the doom and gloom whenever he saw it beginning to set in, but there was only so much he could do.

Despite the two additional weeks which have now passed, however, Dean is no closer to understanding what has broken Cas’ spirit than he was when it first happened. It’s obvious that it’s still related to Balthazar, since Cas refuses to drink and he got twitchy the one time Dean slipped and mentioned the bastard’s name, but Dean is beginning to suspect that it runs deeper than standard heartbreak. It’s affecting Cas too much, taking too long for him to recover.

Unless Dean is either underestimating the strength of Calthazar, or overestimating Cas’ ability to handle his emotions. Selfishly, Dean hopes it’s the latter. He would much rather have to deal with Cas not knowing how to process heartbreak than Cas simply having _too much_ heartbreak.

But when he’s asleep, as always, Cas’ problems seem miles away.

Dean watches him, and wonders when that will become a permanent thing.

He stares at the gentle slopes of Cas’ face right up until he falls asleep, too, the sound of a hawk’s cries being played out of the TV’s speakers reverberating through his ears.

 

 

 

 

Time takes on a strange rhythm, after that. Winter quarter begins before Dean is quite ready for it, and yet another heavy course load means that the first week of classes passes with very little free time.

So if Dean decides to drop a few credits to make his life easier… That’s no one’s business from his own.

Which means he doesn’t tell anyone about it. Not even Charlie.

It isn’t a lack of trust that makes him keep his altered schedule from Charlie, of course. Dean trusts her entirely, and that’s why he has emails full of code and test software and top-secret blueprints waiting for him in his inbox. But no matter how much he trusts her, or how involved he’s going to let her be in his foray into heroism, there are some things that are bound to be better off kept to himself.

He doesn’t need to put any more secrets on Charlie’s shoulders than is strictly necessary, anyway.

As soon as Dean has dropped one of his classes, though, and gotten himself the spare time that he needed, all of his priorities are able to shift. He takes the start to his suit he began in Bobby’s garage and begins to add to it, with materials he’s able to buy and squirrel back into the apartment when Cas isn’t looking, and when he’s lucky, with some of the lab materials available to him at school. He has to schmooze a few key professors and TAs to make it happen, and invent all sort of fake projects to lie to them about, but the school’s resources are better than any other Dean can hope to get his hands on, so he tells himself it’s worth all of the lies.

In the end, Charlie’s initial timeline turns out to be pretty spot-on.

They’re only a few days shy of the middle of January when Dean deems himself ready for his first test run.

Naturally, he calls Charlie.

And the first thing she says is, “Holy shit, you actually built it already? _All_ of it? Even the—?”

“Yeah, Charlie,” Dean interrupts her with a heavy sigh, “that’s what _I’m ready_ means. So are you going to come out and be my eyes, or are you going to let me die alone when this thing inevitably goes sideways?”

Charlie audibly flounders at that. “I—what! Dean Winchester, you are not dying tonight, alone or otherwise, so shut your damn mouth! And of course I’m going to be there, jackass. Just tell me when and where.”

So Dean does. He names an isolated stretch of beach on Lake Washington and gives her a time to meet him there, and she agrees without hesitation. When they’ve hung up, there’s a fresh bundle of nerves in Dean’s stomach, excitement and fear twisting him up in equal measure.

It’s just a test run. Surely he can handle a test run.

He changes into clothes that will sit easily beneath the tight fit of his suit—which means, exercise pants that are barely more than leggings and a ribbed tank top that adheres itself to Dean’s chest in a way that’s borderline uncomfortable—then works on wedging the suit itself into a duffle bag. It’s trickier to manage than he wants it to be, so he makes an immediate mental note to work on _that_ as an improvement, first.

Because, Jesus, packing this thing around like this could get _really_ old. Dean can only imagine how terrible it’s going to be to try to get in and out of the damn suit when he’s in a hurry.

The issue, he knows, is entirely in the back. The material that makes up the majority of the suit, covering Dean’s body and limbs, is thick yet flexible. Not quite bullet _proof_ , but definitely bullet resistant. The wiring threaded between the layers adds density, but not at the cost of that flexibility Dean so desperately needs.

But the spine. The spine is an entirely different story.

He manages to get it into the bag eventually, though, so the planned improvement can continue to be _planned_ for the time being. Which is good; Dean would really rather _not_ have to put the suit on and climb out of the window, just to get it past Cas.

Of course, as luck as would have it, getting it past Cas turns out to be a challenge anyway.

Because of course, as luck would have it, Cas exits his bedroom at the exact same time that Dean does. They nearly bump into each other in the hall, and end up staring at one another with wide eyes.

Dean glances at Cas, then down at the bag in his hand, then back up again. _Shit_. He tries to act casual. “Uh, hey. What are you up to?”

“I was just…” Cas trails off, his eyes raking up and down Dean’s form. “Um. Are you… going to the gym?”

“Oh! Uh.” Dean looks down at himself again. The weird, tight clothes, the bag—yeah. Yeah, gym works. “Yeah. Benny asked me to work out with him. And I think he said something about beer afterwards, so I might go to his place when we’re done. I’ll try not to be out too late, though.”

Cas’ throat bobs when he swallows, and his eyes skitter away when he nods. “Sure. Tell Benny I say hello, then. And I’ll just… be here.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he nods and hurries out of the apartment. If he looks back, he knows the guilt will get to him.

So he doesn’t look back.

He’s only lying to Cas because he doesn’t have a choice. It’s to keep Cas safe. The less he knows, the better.

Or so Dean tells himself.

He gets to the beach long before Charlie does, and takes advantage of that extra time to scout out a good place for this test run. It’s as abandoned as Dean expected it to be, given the lingering winter, but he still takes care to pick out the perfect spot. Hedged in by trees, with plenty of space to maneuver on land and a decent stretch of water that can be used to catch him if everything really does go sideways.

Just what he needs.

He’s working on getting his suit back out of his bag when Charlie shows up. He calls out to her as she picks her way up the beach, “Hey, mind giving me a hand with this?”

She wrinkles her nose at the request, but once she makes it close enough to see what it is that Dean is struggling with, she lights up. “This is it? Really? The whole thing fits in this bag?”

Dean huffs. “Yeah, _barely_. You gonna help, or just stand there and look pretty?”

Charlie scoffs and swats him on the shoulder. “Don’t push your luck, Winchester.” She starts to reach for the duffle bag, but pauses just as her fingertips brush against it. She gives Dean a once-over, eyebrows rising up into her bangs. “What’s with the outfit, stud muffin?”

Dean scowls, his cheeks heating. “I needed something I can wear under the suit. Shut up.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“ _Charlie_ —”

“Alright, alright!” She grabs the bottom of the bag to help pry it away from the suit, and between the two of them, they manage to wedge it free.

Once he has it in his hands, Dean hides the suit behind his back. “Okay, turn around. I want you to have the full reveal. You brought your laptop, right?”

“Of course I brought my laptop, what kind of question is that?” Charlie retorts. She turns around as requested—bless her and her willingness to entertain Dean’s dramatic side—and sits herself on a nearby log so that she can begin setting up her laptop.

Dean gets dressed. Charlie’s fingers fly across her keyboard, the only sound aside from the wind through the trees and the lapping of the lake against the beach.

After a few minutes, Charlie announces, “Alright, I’m ready.”

Dean pulls on his helmet and clips the latch beneath his chin. “Me too.”

Charlie spins around so quickly that her laptop nearly slides off of her lap. When she sees Dean, she gasps.

Dean strikes a pose, his chest puffed out with pride. “Well? How do I look?”

For several long moments, Charlie doesn’t answer. She only stares, mouth agape. It lasts so long that Dean’s excitement threatens to turn to nervousness.

Then she presses a hand to her mouth to muffle a sound that could either be a scream or a sob. Whichever it is, once she’s gotten it out of her system, she jumps to her feet and squeals, “You look amazing! If I didn’t know for a fact that you made this, I wouldn’t _believe_ that you made this!”

“I’m a regular Edna Mode,” Dean chuckles. He spreads his arms wide and gestures down at himself. “It’s not too much, is it? I didn’t want to rip off the Angel’s look, but black is practical. I tried to make it different where I could, though. Don’t want to be a total copycat.”

Charlie sets her laptop down on her bag and makes her way over to Dean to poke and prod at the lines of his suit. There’s a stripe of white down each of his arms and a ring around each of his ankles, just where the legs of the suit meet his boots. It isn’t much, but it gives Dean a motif. A _look_.

No one will see him and mistake him for the Angel.

Charlie grabs one of his hands, feeling the material of his sleeves and pulling at the hems on his gloves. “I think Edna Mode might actually be jealous of this,” she says. “I mean, Dean—I know you’re a damn good engineer, but this is…”

Dean grins and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I read a lot of Wikipedia articles. Watched a lot of YouTube. And I got _really_ lucky.”

“ _Lucky_ ,” Charlie repeats with a laugh. “Right.” She studies the suit for another moment, then turns and goes back to her laptop. “I’m going to try to bring your headset online, so hang tight for a minute, okay? It shouldn’t cause any problems, but if you start to smell something burning, you know. Take it off, please.”

Dean waves off her concerns, but stands still while she fusses with her software nonetheless. After an extended minute of rapid typing and muttered swears, the lenses set into his helmet to flicker to life.

“This really would have been easier if I didn’t have to patch you into the cell tower network,” Charlie complains, and Dean splutters a laugh.

“You’re doing _what_? How in the hell?”

Charlie glares up at him. “Unless you want to be dependent on open Wi-Fi networks as you buzz around saving lives, shut up and let me work.”

Dean raises his palms in surrender. It’s not like he was complaining, anyway. He’s just constantly amazed by Charlie’s skill.

Bringing her into this really was a good idea.

Before long, the lit edges of Dean’s lenses get brighter, and new information scrolls across them. A circle hones in around Charlie, and a flurry of small text identifies her by name, age, and…

He squints at the last line and rereads it a few times over. “Charlie, does this say you’ve been arrested?”

Charlie doesn’t so much as look up from her laptop. “Yep. And it’s for your own safety that I don’t tell you why, so don’t even try, buddy.”

Dean huffs. Figures, that he would get an answer like that. Since he can’t ask about it, he asks instead, “Why does it tell me that stat at all?”

“I figure it could be useful,” Charlie says with a shrug. “If your headset’s HUD can use facial identification to recognize someone, _and_ it can tell you if that someone may be a threat or not, that’s going to be safest for you. It’s basically my easiest way of tagging criminals for you.”

Dean frowns. “I don’t know if I like that. Won’t it just lead to stereotyping? And, I mean. It tells me that _you’ve_ been arrested, so doesn’t that mean if I didn’t know you, I might think that _you’re_ a threat?”

Charlie momentarily pauses in her typing while she considers that. Then, “Okay, you’re probably right. I’ll see about attaching that statistic to Most Wanted databases, or filter it only to people with active warrants out.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“No problem. We’ll test the infrared capabilities later, but for now, your body cam should be online, too. It’ll record directly to a cloud server I set up, but I can teach you how to get into that later. You ready for your first test flight?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Dean says, voice wavering only slightly. He is ready for this. He _is_.

But it’s the final moment of truth.

Charlie smirks at him. “Want me to take a video of you? We could make it go viral. Or maybe sell it to the news for a pretty penny.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, let’s not.”

“Your loss,” Charlie says back, now grinning in full. She pivots so that she’s straddling her log bench, ready to watch Dean no matter where he goes. “Alright, then. Have at it.”

Dean takes a deep breath, rolls out his shoulders, then reaches behind himself to tap the release button hidden at the base of his spine. The wings burst free immediately, almost rippling like real feathers as they stretch out on either side of him, despite being made primarily of titanium and mylar.

Charlie sucks in a sharp breath. “Jesus, you really did pull it off. And it looks incredible! Is that from those military blueprints I sent you?”

“The bulk of it, yeah.” Dean raises his arms along the lengths of the wings and knocks his elbows against their upper ridge. At the command, two sets of cuffs lock around each of his arms, one at his bicep and one at his forearm. He knocks his elbow against them again to make sure that it releases, then one last time to secure his arms back into place.  He moves his arms up and then down again to demonstrate to Charlie the way that the wings move with him.

“I had to improvise on some of the controls,” he goes on, “but the general shape and the power sourcing came from those blueprints. With some basic modifications so that no one can prove it’s stolen tech, of course.”

“Atta boy. Can they carry you?”

“It’s basically a jetpack, so hopefully. The wings themselves are mostly for maneuverability.”

“And to look like the Angel.”

Dean ducks his head and coughs. He doesn’t bother to deny it.

Charlie laughs. “You’re hopeless. It’s good that you added your own elements, though. You’re more bird than angel, and it works surprisingly well. It’s a good hawk aesthetic.” She claps her hands together, then, her eyes brightening with excitement. “So, you going to fly or what, bird boy?”

He is. He takes another minute to brace himself, tests the wings’ range of motion a bit more, presses the button concealed between his thumb and forefinger to check that the jetpack part of the flight set is working, then finally deems himself ready.

He takes a running start to build up momentum. It’s tricky, given the unevenness of the beach, but his boots find what traction they can and he hurtles toward the water. Just before he reaches its edge, he activates the jetpack and gives the wings a hard flap.

And instead of tripping face first into the lake, he _soars_.

He sweeps low over the water and then raises himself up, going as high as he dares while still keeping in a range that won’t draw any untoward attention. He wavers slightly when he reaches his trajectory’s apex, but that’s mostly his own fault. He’s never been a huge fan of heights.

He trusts his wings entirely, though. He built them with his own hands—he knows they won’t fail him.

He flies a loop over the water, then makes a hairpin turn and starts back toward the beach. Charlie cheers for him from the shore, her phone in her hand to record the flight despite the earlier decision on the matter. Not that Dean can bring himself to care, of course.

 

 

When he lands, Charlie runs up to hug him. She’s shaking with excitement, and immediately starts to babble, “Dean! Dean, this is amazing! Do you realize _how amazing_ this is? You looked so great out there! You gave yourself the ability to _fly_!”

The muscles in Dean’s arms burn from the exertion of the flight—turning the wings isn’t easy once air resistance is factored into it, and he’s working his muscles in ways he isn’t used to—and the adrenaline coursing through his veins is making it hard to catch his breath. Charlie’s excitement is contagious, but frankly, Dean doesn’t need it to be. He’s riding high all on his own. He feels _good_.

He tunes back into Charlie’s rambling just in time to hear her say, “All you need now is a name, and you’re set. Tell me you have some ideas? Are you going to call yourself something bird-related to match the—?”

“Hunter,” Dean interrupts. He hits the button at the base of his spine again and the wings draw back into the spine. “I’m going to be the Hunter. Because I don’t perform miracles, but I do hunt bad guys.”

Charlie grins. “That sounds perfect.”

 

 

 

 

After the suit has been tested and given a seal of approval, Dean begins his hero career in full.

Or… he tries to.

As it turns out, finding crime that he’s able to fight is easier said than done. The first night that Dean dedicates to being the Hunter passes incredibly uneventfully. He camps out on a few different rooftops around downtown Seattle, but the January night offers little but frigid air and a light smattering of snowflakes. His suit keeps him insulated against the cold, but even still, Dean very nearly calls it quits several times over just for how unpleasant the weather is.

But he doesn’t. He sticks it out, and in the end, he has nothing to show for it.

It frustrates him beyond belief. Did the Angel ever have days like this? Days where there was nothing to do, where his desire to help people was wasted?

Gone or not, Dean idolizes the hero so much that he has to doubt it.

The next night, Dean doesn’t make it out into the city. He’s too paranoid about Cas finding out what he’s doing to simply walk out of the apartment two nights in a row, so he hides behind an excuse of homework and acts like nothing has changed. Cas rents them a movie, and Dean begrudgingly joins him on the couch to watch it. Disappointment wells in him, strong enough that even Cas can see it; he spends most of the night staring at Dean, silently willing him to spill his secrets.

Cas doesn’t ask, though. And Dean doesn’t tell.

He dons his suit as soon as Cas has left for his classes in the morning, determined to try again.

And this time—this time, Dean succeeds. Watching and waiting for an opportunity to present itself didn’t get him very far during his first outing, so today he tunes his earpiece into the police scanner to help him find direction.

The first call he’s near enough to respond to is also the most fitting one.

Yet another armed robbery. Capitol Hill.

Dean releases his wings, runs, and leaps off of the rooftop he has been waiting on. He overtakes a pair of police cars in flight, and arrives at the bakery that’s being held up well before the officers can make their way through the thick traffic on the streets.

It’s the perfect opportunity. Just what Dean needs.

It’s really too bad that Charlie isn’t online to back him up right now. He knows she would love this.

He lands a bit harder than he intends to in front of the bakery, jarring his knees against the pavement. The bystanders who are lurking around, all cowering behind what cover they can find due to the threat the man in the bakery has no doubt already made, gasp and stare. Dean pays them no mind. Through the bakery’s glass front, he can clearly see the scene that is developing.

A man with a scarf pulled up to conceal the lower half of his face and a gun in his hand. That gun is pointed at a young woman behind the counter, her hands up and shaking while the robber barks orders at her. He gestures between her and the register; elsewhere in the bakery, customers lay flat on the floor, their hands on their heads. Another robber, a woman, stands over them with a shotgun to keep them obedient.

Dean takes it all in in an instant, then shoulders his way through the bakery’s front door.

The woman tightens her grip on her shotgun and raises it halfway toward Dean. The man at the counter, meanwhile, slowly turns around. He looks downright offended at being interrupted.

“And who the fuck do you think you are?”

Dean’s stomach swoops, but despite the nerves twisting in his gut, he flashes a cocky smile. “I’m the Hunter. And you are?”

The man’s sneer is easy to see despite his scarf. “Alright, forget I asked. If you’re some Angel wannabe, you can die just like he did.”

His gun has been held on the woman behind the counter, but between one blink and the next, he’s pivoted to aim at Dean instead. “Bye, birdy,” he says, then fires directly at Dean’s head.

He’s fast, but Dean is faster. He twists, gets his center of gravity low to the ground, and wraps one of his wings up in front of him to block the bullet’s path. The crack of the bullet against the wing is loud in the small confines of the bakery; the woman behind the counter screams and covers her ears with her hands.

When Dean lowers his wing back to his side, the robber is shocked. In fact, Dean would almost go so far as to say he looks _scared_.

Dean smirks at him. “Well that was rude. But hey, I gotta ask—” He spares a quick second to read the small text floating beside the man’s head, Charlie’s software coming through despite the efforts he has made to disguise himself. “—Desmond. You ever wash that nasty scarf you got on your face, pal? Or does it still have blood on it from that woman you killed in Ballard a couple weeks back?”

Having his name is a nice touch, but really, Dean didn’t need Charlie’s software to know who this bastard is. He would recognize that ugly scarf anywhere.

The guy’s eyes widen. “That’s—no. Shut the fuck up. You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, sure I do.”

Two of the customers pinned to the floor begin to whisper. Dean doesn’t dare focus on them enough to hear what they’re talking about, but he swears he hears the word _Ballard_. It’s a good bit of gossip; he can’t say he blames them.

He also sees that one of the customers ( _hostages_ , he corrects himself) has his phone out and discreetly propped up to record the entire encounter.

Good.

The woman with the shotgun kicks at the hostage nearest to her and barks, “Quiet!” The whispering stops immediately.

Dean clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Come on, Candace, no need for that. The worse you treat your hostages, the worse the police treat _you_ , don’t you know that?”

“Fuck off,” she snarls in return.

Dean can’t help but taunt, “You gonna make me?”

She lifts her gun to do just that, but again, Dean is ready. Instead of blocking with his wing like he did the first time, he makes a sharp dodge to the right, and the shot goes wide. The man tries to track Dean’s movements with his pistol and fires another round, but that one misses, too.

Dean reaches the side of the bakery and uses the wall as a springboard to quickly change directions and launch himself back at the robbers. The jets in his wings propel him forward, and with a well-aimed kick to her chest, he sends the woman flying through the air to crash into her accomplice. The two of them crumple into a heap on the ground, groaning in pain.

One kick isn’t enough to subdue them, though. Dean walks over to them and holds out his wrist, and when he flexes it, a small dart shoots out. He sends one into each of the robbers, sedating them until the police arrive.

Which—

There have been sirens in the distance for a while now, but they’re finally right outside the bakery. The red and blue lights mounted on top of the cars flash through the entire shop, illuminating the customers as they slowly peel themselves off the floor and get to their feet.

They watch Dean warily. Like they aren’t sure what to expect from him.

Meanwhile, Dean finds himself unsure of how he’s supposed to leave now that the fight is finished. He swallows hard, then raises his voice to ask the gathered crowd, “Everyone alright? Anyone hurt?”

A few people shake their heads, and since no one speaks out to say that they’re injured, Dean decides to be satisfied with it. He looks to the woman behind the counter. She’s still trembling, but unfortunately, there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Does this place have a back door?”

She raises a hand to point toward the kitchen. Dean nods, grateful for the help, and hurries toward the door to the kitchen. Just before he pushes through it, the woman calls after him, “Hey!”

Dean stops and looks back. The woman gives him a watery smile. “Thank you.”

Those two, simple words send an indescribable emotion bursting through Dean’s chest, and for a second, he swears he detaches from reality. He certainly forgets about the police waiting just outside the front door, most likely willing to arrest him without so much as batting an eye.

Because in that moment, Dean thinks he understands why the Angel always did this.

Who knew that a simple thanks could feel like so much?

There’s a lump in Dean’s throat that prevents him from answering, so he nods once, then ducks into the kitchen. A pair of bakers cowering behind one of the ovens startle at the sight of him, but he ignores them and runs straight for the back door. Once he’s through and in the alleyway behind it, he locks his arms into his wings and takes flight.

By the time he’s back home, the story is already plastered across every news outlet and social media site. It’s on the local news channel. It’s on CNN. It’s even taken over the Angel forums. The video that was taken of the fight in the bakery is present across all of it. A photo of Dean in flight over Lake Washington crops up occasionally, too, courtesy of Charlie.

(Who, of course, called Dean and screeched at him for nearly half an hour after he texted her and told her to watch the bodycam footage from his suit. She made her pride in him clear, and then quickly rushed off to do some shadow PR work.)

His first night out might not have given him any footing, but this? This is just the heroic deed that he needed to establish the Hunter. There were at least a dozen people in the bakery, including the bakers tucked into the back, and thanks to Dean, none of them got hurt. The two robbers were taken into custody, and for the man, that certainly means he’s locked away for life.

Two armed robberies and a homicide sitting on his record is a pretty surefire way of sealing his fate.

And the fact that the Hunter caught the man that the Angel was blamed for letting escape? The so-called robbery without consequences got the perfect ending.

Plus, the entire event establishes Dean’s name. It starts people talking.

Most importantly, though (as far as Dean is personally concerned), is that it gives the city something to focus on other than the Angel’s disappearance. The suspicion that the Angel is dead has only grown over the past few weeks, and frankly, Dean is tired of hearing about it. It only causes him heartache.

So it’s nice to have the focus shifted for once.

Even if it’s utterly surreal to hear a bunch of strangers talking about _him_. They reference a video of him, pick it apart like he used to pick apart videos of the Angel, and spend hours discussing the suit and the wings that he put together with his bare hands. Most of the assessments Dean hears while he switches between the main news stations are skewed—despite his wings’ ability to catch a bullet, some people are convinced that they’re flesh and bone, and many of his suit’s benefits are attributed to inhuman powers like those the Angel and the Devil both possess—but they certainly make the most of what little foundational material they have. Dean has to give them credit for that much.

But it’s still bizarre.

And it absolutely makes him want to put his suit back on and fly right back into the city to find another fight. He wants to give the people more to talk about. He wants to prove himself to them, show off all of the effort he has put into this.

He’s one job in and he’s already convinced that becoming the Hunter was the best thing he’s ever done.

But one job isn’t much; he’s got a hell of a lot further to go.

 

 

 

 

It takes a week for the subject to finally come up with Cas. A week of late nights and skipped classes, a week increasingly flimsy excuses about working out with Benny and helping Charlie with some made-up project (which Charlie bolsters without hesitation, of course, and which Benny has no need to, because Cas would never question him), and above all, a week of unmatched success for the Hunter.

It’s a good week.

And to be perfectly honest, Dean is surprised that it even takes that long.

It starts innocently enough, with Cas inviting Dean to get burgers at their favorite restaurant. Dean doesn’t know how to deny him even if he wanted to—but he doesn’t want to, so that doesn’t matter anyway.

He’s only been the Hunter for a week, but between that week and the previous few that were spent building his suit, Dean has been detached for a while. He feels like he’s hardly seen Cas since Christmas. He _misses him_.

So they go out. They eat burgers and drink Cokes, and chat about nothing in particular. It’s nice, and warms Dean in an entirely different way than his acts of heroism have been doing lately.

At least, it’s nice up until Cas asks, using his straw to poke idly at the ice in his drink, “Have you heard about the Hunter?”

Dean chokes on a fry. When he’s cleared it, he asks weakly, “Since when do you follow stuff like that?”

Cas shrugs, looking sheepish. “It’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. And, frankly, I find the Hunter to be far more interesting than the Angel ever was.”

 _That_ catches Dean’s attention. He knows he should change the subject, because this one is fire and he’s practically begging to be burned by pursuing it, but Jesus, he can’t help himself. How is he supposed to let a statement like that just… pass him by?

He swallows against the growing lump in his throat.“What makes the Hunter more interesting than the Angel?”

Again, Cas shrugs. “He saw a job that he believed needed to be done, and he is now doing what was necessary to fulfill it. He must have put in an incredible amount of time and effort to create his suit. The Angel was born with his abilities, but the Hunter used his smarts to figure out how to help people. It’s something of a literal example of, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them’.”

Loathe as he is to detract from Cas’ main point, Dean has to interject, squinting across the table, “When you took that Shakespeare class last year, didn’t you try to tell me that that line is actually about sleeping your way to the top? Getting greatness with _thrusts_?”

Cas gives Dean a look of faux disappointment, amusement just beneath its surface. “Yes, that _is_ what that line means within the context of _Twelfth Night_ , but let me use the quote like a normal person instead of an English major for once, alright? I’m trying to explain my appreciation for the Hunter. To use that line, the Angel was born great. The Hunter achieved it. It may have been thrown at him, too, given the Angel’s abrupt retirement. Everything this man is doing is incredible, and I greatly admire him for it.”

All of the air rushes from Dean’s lungs, and despite his best efforts to the contrary, his face burns with a blush. He really can’t help himself, though, because this is _Cas_. Cas is validating everything Dean has been dedicating his last few weeks to. Cas approves of the Hunter’s methods. Cas is _impressed by him_.

Maybe that’s not exactly the same as Cas praising Dean directly, since Cas doesn’t know that he and the Hunter are one and the same, but whatever. Dean will take what he can get.

“I guess that’s fair,” he tells Cas, because he needs to say _something_. Meeting that kind of declaration with silence would just be awkward. With the warmth that’s now sitting low in his stomach, it’s easy for him to conjure up a smile. “I think I’ll always be an Angel fan first and foremost, but, fair. The Hunter seems like a decent enough guy.”

Cas nods and looks down at his hands. He looks pleased, like he’s proud of himself for connecting with Dean on the subject of heroes. It’s adorable, really, and the warmth Dean feels ramps up into a low-level buzz, tingling along his spine.

They return to eating, comfortable in the quiet which has fallen between them. Then, after a few moments, Cas changes the subject.

“What are we doing tomorrow?”

Dean blinks across the table, thrown by the non-sequitur. “Tomorrow?”

Cas’ eyebrows rise, his surprise evident. “Dean… You _do_ know what tomorrow is, don’t you?”

He forces himself to chuckle. “Cas, I hardly remember what I had for breakfast this morning. Want to give me a hint?”

“ _Dean_.” The way Cas says his name, so imploringly, makes Dean shiver. It also terrifies him, though, because now he knows he’s missing something big. “Tomorrow’s your birthday.”

Oh.

Shit.

Dean rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Right. Uh. I… definitely knew that.”

Cas frowns. “You didn’t, though. You forgot your own birthday. I feel like I should be worried.”

“Don’t be _worried_ ,” Dean objects with a scoff. His face is warmer than it had been, but that’s a fact he resolutely chooses to ignore. “I just… didn’t realize the date. I’ve been busy, okay? I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

Cas doesn’t seem to be buying the deflections, though. He shakes his head. “It’s your birthday, Dean. It happens on the same day every year, so it’s not exactly something you can forget about.” He pauses for a beat and somehow manages to become even more serious as he asks, “Are you okay? Is something going on? Ever since you started to be _busy_ all the time…”

Dean huffs with yet another deflection. This is now getting too close to the actual issue at-hand, and Dean can’t let it go any further. He can’t talk about this with Cas. He can’t let Cas _know_.

Besides, if he were to be honest, here—what the hell would he even say?

 _Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just spent the last week skipping classes and sneaking out of the apartment after you go to bed, and using a pair of metal wings I made to beat up low-lifes all around King County. So, you know—just a little distracted. Starting up a life of vigilantism is a totally valid reason for forgetting my own_ birthday _._

Fucking _right_.

“I’m fine,” he says, as earnestly as he possibly can. He even leans into the table, maintaining eye contact with Cas so that, with luck, his intensity will be interpreted as honesty. “I really am, okay? I’ve just been keeping busy so far this quarter, that’s all. I’m taking a lot of credits.”

He pauses to take a sip of his Coke, a deliberate break in his defense. Then, “Besides, if anyone has been weird lately, it’s definitely _you_ , dude. How have you been lately? I know we never talked about what happened back before break, but…”

All at once, Cas’ expression goes blank. “Dean, I would rather not discuss—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dean is quick to say, holding his hands up in self-defense. “I’m not gonna go back and push on that. You had some shit go down, and I can respect that you’re not ready to talk about it. But it’s not fair for you to push me just because you _think_ there might be something up with me, when you basically had a whole personality flip and I didn’t say a damn word about it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fucking thrilled that you’re around more and not constantly going to parties and whatever else, but you still went through something big. So I should seriously be asking _you_ if you’re okay.”

Cas presses his lips together and ducks his head, looking contrite. “I… suppose that is a fair counterpoint,” he concedes. He fidgets for a moment, swiping the pad of his thumb back and forth through the condensation on the side of his glass. “I’m sorry. For not talking about it. Thank you for being so understanding, though, it means a lot to me.”

Dean gives him a small smile. “‘Course. I’ve got your back. But, uh… You _are_ okay, right? And you’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“Of course.” Cas’ own smile is just as small as Dean’s, but it’s genuine, and that makes Dean feel better than anything else. “I’m okay, Dean. I think I’m better than I have been in a long while, in fact. I’m happier now that I’m not… partying.”

There’s a slight waver in the statement, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss with how closely Dean is watching him. He thinks he gets it, though. Swapping one lifestyle for another has to be hard, regardless of what improvements might come along with it. Dean can sympathize. Truly.

His smile turns just a little bit softer. “You sure you’re good?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” Cas settles back against his side of the booth they’re sitting in, and maybe it’s just the restaurant’s tavern lighting, but Dean would swear his cheeks dust pink. “Having you around helps considerably.”

And—okay. Dean can see why he’s blushing. He ducks his head, hiding the sappy smile he knows his lips are curling into, and says in return, “I’m glad I’m around, then.”

Cas hums, and then the two of them go back to eating. They finish their meals, pay their bill, and then head back to their apartment. They don’t talk about it.

But that suits Dean just fine. He’s happy just knowing that Cas appreciates him. As the Hunter _and_ as himself.

It’s a better birthday gift than any Dean might have ever thought to ask for.

 

 

 

 

Doing hero work steadily becomes a habit. Although he still frequently struggles to get away from his personal life (he ends up being ambushed by Cas, Benny, Charlie, and Jo for a night of board games and booze for his birthday, so between that and the long phone calls he has with both Sam and Bobby, he doesn’t manage to get into his Hunter suit at all; it makes him more than a little bit twitchy), Dean gradually gets better at slipping through the cracks. If there’s ever a chance to seize a bit of free time, he does so, making the most of every minute to maximize the number of people he can help.

And of course, practice makes perfect, so every one of those minutes only helps him to get better at the work itself. It gets easier to find where he is needed, and whenever there is a threat that needs to be dealt with, dispatching them takes less and less effort.

Charlie, excellent wing man that she is, provides an amazing amount of support. If Dean is out and about and Charlie is available, he can count on her to be online and either chatting into his ear piece or sending messages directly to his visor. She directs him to developing incidents all around the Seattle area, provides inside and commentary during actual encounters with criminals, and makes sure that the police are anonymously notified of the Hunter’s latest catch whenever Dean leaves a crime scene behind.

They work well as a team. They’re efficient. Well-oiled. Dean wonders if the Angel had a sidekick like Charlie; if not, he doesn’t know how the guy ever coped.

Additionally, between Dean’s constant forays into the city and the training regimine he forces himself to get into at home, he goes from being a decent fighter to being a _good_ fighter. Some assholes still shoot at him, of course, and there’s little Dean can do about that no matter how good of a fight he can put up, but as long as he’s quick enough to get around their bullets or block them with his wings, it’s barely more than a nuisance.

The training regimine is partially responsible for that. Dean has never been a fan of exercise, but he’s capable of recognizing necessity. Being outmatched during a fight could mean getting caught, or even killed. And he can’t let that happen.

So he trains. The Internet is a great resource for learning self-defense, and he strengthens his core muscles just by following along with YouTube videos. He guides his body through specific exercises again and again, pushing himself until the movements are routine, and they no longer leave him shaking with exertion when he’s finished.

It’s not the most traditional form of training, Dean is sure, but it’s something he can do quietly, and that is what makes it perfect.

Because something he can do quietly is something he can do without Cas noticing.

However, Dean also takes up jogging in the mornings, and that _is_ something he lets Cas see. It’s normal enough, he figures—surely jogging doesn’t automatically translate to training to become an unbeatable vigilante. Right?

That said, the first time Cas is in the kitchen when Dean comes home from a morning jog, he stares at him like he’s grown another head. Dean, coward that he is, shoots him a grin and hurries off to the shower before he can be questioned.

After it happens a few more times, though, Cas begins to run with him. One morning when Dean gets up, Cas simply appears at his side, sitting on the floor by the front door and tying on his tennis shoes while Dean does the same. Dean raises an eyebrow, Cas just shrugs in answer, and the two of them share a small smile.

So then they run together. It’s better than running alone, Dean quickly finds, and he really likes being able to share even just one microscopic aspect of his new life with Cas. He holds firm in not letting Cas know about any of the rest of it, but running is harmless. And, better yet, running with Cas is _fun_.

Dean never thought he’d ever have a reason to put the words ‘running’ and ‘fun’ together in the same sentence, but here he is.

All of his exercising pays off, too. He goes from being scrappy and able to use his stubbornness alone to punch his way through any situation, to kicking ass and taking names without so much as breaking a sweat. Thanks to his suit’s abilities, no one can really land a hit of their own during a fight, but it’s nice to have confidence in _himself_ and not just the suit.

Not that there’s an issue with depending on his suit. It’s pretty damn incredible, if he can say so himself.

But there’s still something about knowing he could (probably) survive without it that is absurdly satisfying.

His newfound strength and fighting skills certainly come in handy, too. When he encounters criminals who are truly dangerous, like the armed pair in the bakery, he puts a lot of faith into his suit. His wings catch bullets, his wrists shoot sedatives, and, on one momentous occasion versus an absolute mountain of a man who thought it was a good idea to bull rush Dean, the webbing in his gloves deliver a tase powerful enough to drop the aforementioned mountain of a man on his ass.

The taser isn’t a feature he feels comfortable using unless he absolutely has to, because it’s only very loosely based on the Angel’s electrical abilities and isn’t guaranteed to be safe, but damn is it one of his favorites anyway.

All that being said, though, as time wears on, Dean doesn’t end up having to fight quite as often as he would have expected. Sure, there are plenty of times when the asshole he shows up to battle needs a good ass-kicking to be put in their place, but there are also plenty of times where that _isn’t_ the case.

Because as it turns out, a lot of Seattle’s criminals are cowards, plain and simple. Dean’s presence alone is usually enough to send a would-be assaulter or thief running for the hills. Crime rates may have spiked once the threat of a divine intervention was no longer lurking in the sky, but once it became clear that the Hunter will go to the same lengths that the Angel once did, the weakest among them began to make themselves known.

The ones who run have a good survival instinct, Dean has to give them that much.

But of course, he can’t just let criminals _escape_. He ends up shooting darts after most of them, and when the police come by, they get arrested and locked away just like all the rest.

One day at a time, Seattle becomes a safer place to live.

It fills Dean with pride.

The Hunter reaches his one month anniversary before Dean knows it. Charlie gifts him a pie in celebration, and they quietly revel in their success. Over the course of that month, the Hunter may not have done nearly as much as the Angel typically averaged over the same length of time, but for a newbie, he still does amazingly well. He establishes himself through his successes in the streets, and gets good press to go along with it when the crime rates dip back down as a result.

The crime rates don’t lessen as quickly as they rose after the Angel’s fall, of course, but it’s still something. Plus, the slow way the statistics swing back in the favor of the general public ensures that Dean continues to have work to do. Not that that was ever a fear—the Angel spent years defending Seattle, and for years, people continued to try to rise up against him—but, well. It’s still for the best that Dean doesn’t render himself obsolete _too_ quickly.

So the one month mark comes and goes, and Dean’s work doesn’t slow. He helps people of every creed, and with every sort of emergency, ranging from helping an old Pakistani woman back up to her feet after she fell in the middle of a crosswalk on Pike Street, to stopping a young gay man from being beat up in Capitol Hill, to preventing several would-be murderers with guns and trigger-happy fingers from either harming someone during an attempted robbery or shooting just for the sick pleasure of taking a life.

There are hate crimes. Crimes of passion. Crimes committed out of desperation. Dean sees it all.

But he also gets to see Seattle from the sky, and from that perspective, the city is absolutely gorgeous. Before becoming the hunter, Dean was never a big fan of heights, yet there comes to be nothing he enjoys more than flying over the city or perching on top of a high building and just _watching_. The grey skies that only begin to break up toward the end of winter, the vibrant blue of the lakes, dotted with boats and seaplanes, the high rises on the buildings downtown positioned on steeply-inclined roads—Dean loves all of it. And while he’s under the guise of the Hunter, it feels like it’s _his_.

And in a way, it is. He saves, just like the Angel once did. He lives up to the legacy that came before him. He keeps his city _safe_. Under his watch, there are no preventable deaths, no senseless crimes that go unpunished.

He’s Seattle’s friendly, neighborhood Hunter. And he absolutely loves it.

 

 

 

 

Of course, _preventable_ is a very key word in a statement like, _there are no preventable deaths_. Just like when the Angel was in operation, there are always crimes that are beyond the Hunter’s influence. Incidents which occur when he is not the Hunter at all, or are too far away for him to know about or respond to quickly enough. One guy in a suit can only be so many places at once.

What may be the worst blow comes from an incident Dean reads about on a news site first thing in the morning on an otherwise unimportant day, a few weeks after his one month anniversary and just as winter quarter at the University starts to come to a close. Those few weeks were just as great as the first few, adding to the Hunter’s win-streak, but then, that’s probably exactly why the universe decides his bubble needs to be shattered.

Not that the Hunter would have been able to prevent the slaughter of a young couple in their own beds, though. He thrives on issues that develop in public spaces, in the public eye; he can drop onto a dark street corner after he hears a scream to prevent a mugging, but a murder in the middle of the night, in a quiet neighborhood with no one around?

Objectively, he knows that he couldn’t have done anything about it. But that logic doesn’t make it sting any less. It doesn’t stop him from kicking himself for not staying out later the night before, or for not having done a better job screening Seattle’s neighborhoods for imminent threats before turning his attention away from them. There wasn’t a damn thing he could have done, but fuck, does he wish there was.

And that’s why he tortures himself by reading up on every detail he can, concerning the developing case. Maybe it wasn’t his fault, but it _is_ still his city. His people. There’s no way for him to _not_ regret their deaths.

(God, is this how the Angel always felt?)

The couple were killed in their home, a small rambler in Greenwood. The estimated time of their deaths is about midnight. There had been no signs of a break-in, yet early police reports say that a witness mentioned an unidentified suspect at the scene, spawning a murder investigation and a manhunt that doesn’t have very many leads.

The man had had his skull bashed in with a hammer. The woman had a bullet through her head. If it weren’t for the witness’s report, it probably would have been viewed as a murder-suicide rather than a double homicide.

Dean only finds the causes of death when he accesses the Seattle Police Department’s private databases, and reads the reports from the officers who found the bodies. He isn’t surprised that the information hasn’t been made public, given its graphic nature, but there’s another detail about it that doesn’t quite sit right with him.

It feels… familiar. Like Dean has read the same reports somewhere else, but can’t place where.

And that feeling might be even worse than his projection of responsibility on the whole incident.

The case haunts him. He can’t figure out why the police reports give him a feeling of deja vu, but they _do_ , so he can’t stop himself from being drawn back again and again, no matter how many times he tries to get himself to forget all about it. And he _should_ forget all about it—it has nothing to do with his self-assigned responsibilities as the Hunter, and it definitely isn’t something he can retroactively fix, so there’s no _point_. All it does is cause him stress, so shouldn’t he leave it be?

He fights against it for about a day and a half before finally cracking beneath the pressure. When he dons his Hunter suit next, he only takes a brief flight over the city before taking a firm detour to Greenwood.

And if he reaches up to hit the killswitch on his body cam while he makes his way there, well. He just doesn’t want to have to explain himself to Charlie. It’s best not to weigh her down with this mess, like it’s weighing Dean down.

As he approaches Greenwood, feeling his way to the location of the crime scene based on photos he saw in the police department’s files and a half-remembered mark on a map, the first observation he makes is that everything about the neighborhood is average, almost painfully so. The streets are full of small, unremarkable houses, and is so packed with cars that there is barely space for a single, usable lane down the middle. The nearby main road provides enough noise that Dean suspects perfect quiet doesn’t exist, but the sounds aren’t distracting, either. Overall, there’s nothing to it that isn’t typical for a Seattle suburb.

And yet somehow, as Dean skips to a landing on the sidewalk, it still feels _off_.

Dean lets his wings hang loose behind his shoulders as he walks toward the house—easy to spot, thanks to the police barriers left in the driveway and the crime scene tape marking off the front door—banking on the hope that they will identify him and keep him from getting into any trouble for being here. There’s a heavy-duty lock closed around the doorknob, and Dean brushes his gloved fingers across it. He’s halfway tempted to utilize his suit’s abilities to break his way through it and be done with it; it might be worthwhile, if it means getting a look at the crime scene.

Just as he wraps his hand around the lock’s casing, however, ready to destroy it, a voice from the street calls, “Are you the Hunter?”

Dean turns around, his hand quickly dropping back away from the lock. He’s glad that he does, too, because the person he finds watching him from the sidewalk is a civilian, not a police officer—and he certainly doesn’t need _civilians_ recognizing him as he breaks into active crime scenes.

Being recognized by a police officer could potentially spare him from arrest, if his reputation is as strong as he hopes it is. Being caught by a civilian, on the other hand, could turn into a bigger issue if it spawns rumors and, by extension, distrust. It’s normal people who determine the Hunter’s reputation to begin with, after all. If the wrong kind of stories were to start spreading about him…

He shakes his head to clear it, then walks down the front path to meet the woman waiting for him at the sidewalk. “Hey there,” he greets with a flash of his most charming smile. “I’m the Hunter, yeah. You’ve heard of me?”

The woman nods in answer. Her eyes flit between each of the identifying markers on Dean’s suit, from the white down his arms to the splashes of the same across his calves to the mylar wings resting against his shoulders, ready to be used. She lingers on that last detail in particular; they would be the hardest to replicate if someone wanted to simply _look_ like the Hunter, so Dean doesn’t have an issue with letting her stare. It’s best that she believes who he is.

And in return, Dean eyes her warily. She seems plain and unassuming, like any other young woman in a quiet neighborhood such as this one might be. It looks like her mouse-brown hair could use a good brushing, but aside from that, there’s hardly anything about her that would make her stand out in a crowd. Dean’s visor identifies her as Meg Masters, and provides no incriminating evidence against her. As far as he can see, he should have no reason not to trust her.

Yet there is a sudden uneasiness in his core, and an unshakeable feeling that something about the situation is already _wrong_. It’s so much worse than it was when he first landed.

But he’s here to learn what he can about the murder, and that means he’s going to have to hear out the neighbors. He can’t give this up until he figures out what it is about this case that’s nagging at him so terribly.

When Meg is finally satisfied that Dean is who he claims to be, she folds her arms together across her chest, hunches her shoulders, and squints up at him. “Did the police send you?”

Dean gives her a tight smile. “I’m looking into the murders that happened here,” he says, vaguely but not untruthfully. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about them, would you? Do you live around here?”

“I’m just across the way,” she answers, nodding her head in the direction of a house adjacent to the one they’re in front of. “I was out here just after it happened, actually. I already gave my report to the police.”

“You were the witness mentioned in the police report?” At Meg’s nod, he prompts further, “You saw a potential suspect, right? Can you tell me what you told the cops?”

Meg wraps her arms even tighter around herself, rubbing her hands up and down her biceps like that will ward off the late-winter chill that is no doubt seeping into her skin. “I had brought my dog outside,” she begins. The story immediately sounds well-rehearsed, likely because she has already repeated it to the police several times over. “I didn’t know Ava and Brady very well, but I’d spoken to them a couple times. They were kind. Really in love—that fairytale kind of honeymoon love, you know? And my little sister knew them better than I did, but she’s out of town visiting our aunt right now. God, she’s going to be devastated when she comes home and hears about this.”

Dean suppresses a sigh. “That’s great, but can you tell me what you saw _that night_?”

Meg nods. “I came outside with my dog at about… twelve-thirty, maybe? Really late. I was awake because I thought I had heard a scream or something, but then I was convinced I had imagined it, so I was just going to take my dog outside to let her pee, then go back to bed. Except, while I was outside, I saw…”

Her eyes drift off toward the house, fixing on some unknowable point as she relives the memory. Dean watches, waits. She almost looks afraid.

After a long, drawn-out moment, she continues, “I saw the strangest thing. It looked like—like _him_. Like the Angel. But everyone says that he’s dead, so I know it couldn’t have been, but I still would have sworn that it…”

Just like that, Meg Masters has the entirety of Dean’s attention. “Describe him to me. Tell me every detail. I need to know exactly what you saw, Meg, every last thing.”

Meg seems surprised by his sudden intensity, but she tells him what he needs to know anyway. She describes seeing a man in a black bodysuit leave the Wilson residence, identical in almost all ways to the one that the Angel used to wear. It was too dark for her to make out any critical details, and aside from the identity-concealing suit, she says that there was nothing unusual about the man himself. Except, of course, for the fact that the timing of his appearance makes it certain that he was involved.

Even if he hadn’t been leaving the house adjacent to her own, as Meg says, his proximity to a yet-to-be-discovered murder scene is incredibly incriminating.

And isn’t _that_ familiar.

“Thank you, Ms. Masters,” Dean says afterward. He’s more occupied by his thoughts than he is by his surroundings anymore, which means it’s time for him to wrap things up and move along. He found his missing connection, anyway. “I appreciate you telling me all of this. I’m going to be helping the police figure out who killed the Wilsons, but until we get to that point, do what you have to to stay safe, okay? Don’t open the door for strangers, try not to take your dog out too late at night.”

Meg purses her lips. “Do you think you can find him?”

Isn’t that a question. Dean answers it truthfully. “I don’t know.”

A beat passes. “Do you think it is the Angel?”

“No.” Dean gives her a sharp look, then turns and starts walking away. “Now go home, Meg. And lock the door behind you.”

He doesn’t wait around to see if she follows the instruction. Either she will or she won’t, depending on her self-preservation instincts; Dean has a hunch that she isn’t at risk of an attack anyway, so it’s not like it matters all that much. Before he can make it more than a few yards away, though, there’s a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, tangible and unsettling. He slows to a halt and turns around, seeking out whoever it is that he can _feel_ staring at him.

Across the street, he can see Meg letting herself back into her house. She isn’t paying him any mind.

Standing in front of Ava and Brady Wilson’s house, however, there is a little girl in a formal, white dress. She’s staring at Dean, and although her face is utterly devoid of any emotion, there’s something about her dull eyes that conveys contempt nonetheless.

A chill runs down Dean’s spine. His visor doesn’t offer him a name, but then, it doesn’t seem to recognize that there is a person standing in front of him at all. He has nothing to go off of, no information whatsoever which could potentially help him figure out why he is being stared down by a child, of all people.

Dean’s fight or flight instinct tips much further in one direction than the other, so he turns and starts walking away once again. After only a few steps, he locks his arms into his wings and launches up into the air, leaving the Greenwood neighborhood far behind.

He looks back toward the Wilson house only once before it gets lost to the distance, and when he does, the little girl is gone.

A cold fear settles into Dean’s bones, and despite how much he wishes he could forget the entire incident, it haunts his every thought for the rest of the day.


	4. The Devil

 

With as disconcerting as the investigation in Greenwood turned out to be, Dean tells himself that it’s justifiable for him to take a few days to decompress, after. He needs to feel _steady_ before he sends himself further down the wormhole, because violent murders and sightings of his lost hero are definitely not things to throw himself toward when he isn’t fully ready for it.

Because that? That’s the kind of shit that can ruin anyone.

So for the span of a couple days, he pretends the Greenwood incident didn’t happen. He focuses on sticking to the Hunter’s roots, saving people, hunting down bad guys. He builds up his confidence. Gets his wins back.

Eventually, he turns back to the case when it starts to feel irresponsible to do anything else. He can’t put it off forever—not when, at this point, he feels like the only person in the city who knows what could be happening. It’s too big. Too important.

He’s still uneasy about the entire thing, both for the weird feelings he had while he was in front of the Wilson house and for the incident with the little girl, but that uneasiness can’t block out the facts.

Those facts being, of course, that there are now five people dead across two incidents with an alarming number of similarities. Three murders done with a hammer. Two with a seemingly self-inflicted shots to the head. Each occurred at odd hours, with Meg Masters serving as the only known witness across either. And both times, the Angel was seen nearby.

The connection may not have been quite as obvious in West Seattle as it was in Greenwood, but Dean sees it nonetheless. And while he doesn’t believe it’s actually the Angel (because what kind of motive could the hero possibly have?), that one small amount of certainty doesn’t give him any sort of insight into what’s happening instead.

It’s a Saturday when he ends up biting the bullet and making the flight across the water to West Seattle.

Saturdays tend to ebb and flow, Dean has learned. Some weekends, the increased amount of traffic through downtown means more danger; there are more tourists to take advantage of, larger crowds to disappear into, more drama to create. On some Saturdays, Dean’s work as the Hunter seems to be unceasing. It feels like he needs to be everywhere at once in order to keep the city safe. His presence can hold a decent amount of crime at bay, which is certainly something he capitalizes on, but even that need to make himself seen can be a lot.

But then, some Saturdays bring nothing but quiet. Quiet Saturdays tend to be a pleasant change from the busy Saturdays. Dean likes them. They usually give him the opportunity to take a breath, recharge. It lets him appreciate his city in peace.

On this particular Saturday, that isn’t the case.

He notices that it’s a quiet Saturday as soon as he takes to the sky. The atmosphere over the city just _feels_ quiet, with a little bit of sunshine streaming through the gaps in the cloud cover, and the audible rumble of the traffic on I-5 sounding duller and more distant than it frequently does. It’s exactly the kind of set up that, on an average weekend, fills Dean with love for his city.

Today, it just feels ominous.

He reaches West Seattle much quicker than he wishes he did, skidding to an uncoordinated landing on top of an apartment building he really wishes didn’t look as familiar as it does. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be doing this. But if he’s going to piece together what not-the-Angel has been up to, retracing the guy’s footsteps strikes Dean as a necessary evil.

And it pays off almost immediately, too, because from the roof of this otherwise-insignificant apartment building, Dean has a clear view of the house where the first set of murders took place.

The confirmation pulls a heavy sigh out of him, and he crouches against the edge of the roof while he considers the implications. He feels exposed, sitting up here; it’s no surprise that the Angel was seen and photographed. Hell, based on the number of pedestrians walking up and down the street beneath the building, Dean is sure there will be pictures of him, now, too.

Which makes Dean wonder—if the Angel were up to something shady, why would he let himself be _this_ exposed in the aftermath?

 _It must have been intentional_.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath as he realizes the reality of it.

He struggles to recall the exact timeline of events, but he knows that the family across the street were killed back before the Angel’s fall and subsequent disappearance. He remembers being terrified by just the thought of what sighting could have done to the Angel’s reputation, if word of it spread wide enough. And that was why Dean had squashed it. He didn’t want to see the fallout of such a thing.

But the Angel—the _false_ Angel, whoever it may be—wanted to be seen. They wanted people to associate the Angel with the murders that were committed.

Of course, that raises a new set of questions.

Was Meg Masters a plant for the police?

What had the Angel imposter done to ensure she would speak out as a witness?

And, why would anyone go to this length to ruin the Angel’s reputation?

That can’t be all there is to the murders, though. Not with the Angel gone and another couple dead. And from the surface, there doesn’t seem to be any sort of connection between the two cases, anyway, because why were the Wilsons chosen? Why was the family back in November—or was it December?—chosen?

Dean swings a leg over the edge of the roof’s ledge, propping himself to sit across the corner, then reaches up to his helmet and double-taps a button concealed in the inner lining. His earpiece buzzes for a few seconds, then clicks when it connects to Charlie.

“Dean, hey!” She greets. There’s a bit of fumbling across the line, making it clear that she’s talking to him from her cell phone. “Are you out right now? Is this an emergency? What’s up?”

“Yeah, I’m out,” he answers. “Not an emergency. Any chance you can get to your laptop, though? I need you to look something up for me.”

He tries not to give too much detail as he describes to her what he needs, mainly because he doesn’t want her to ask questions he doesn’t have answers to, but there isn’t exactly an _easy_ way to ask someone to pull up information on a murder case, so the uncertainty he gets in return feels like an inevitable thing.

“Dean… Why do you need to know about this? What’s so important about a—a murder-suicide?”

Dean winces. He’s pretty sure the family died right before the Angel’s fall, which means he can’t quite bring himself to be surprised that he didn’t see the final deliberation for the case. “Shit. Is that what the police settled on?”

He hears Charlie sigh. “Looks like. Jake Talley shot himself. His wife and son…”

“Yeah.” There’s a lump in Dean’s throat that wasn’t there a moment ago. He swallows hard against it; it’s probably for the best that he didn’t end up looking into this back when it was fresh. “Yeah. A hammer, right?”

“Yeah. Dean, this is…”

“Was it ever treated as a murder investigation? Were there any witnesses, or suspects?”

For a long, drawn-out moment, there’s nothing but silence across Dean’s earpiece. Then— “Yes. According to the Seattle PD file on the investigation, a witness claimed to have seen a man leave the house before the deaths were discovered. But Dean, that never went anywhere, and the witness eventually changed his story. The gunshot was self-inflicted. The story is… pretty self-explanatory.”

Dean’s mind whirls as he considers that. It makes sense, that that’s the conclusion the police came to. It might be the conclusion they come to with the Wilsons. Ava Wilson shot herself, just like Jake Talley did. For all intents and purposes, it’s going to look like the same case.

But will anyone see those similarities?

Dean scrubs a palm across his jaw. “Right. Okay. Now, I’m gonna give you another name—can you find me any connection between Jake Talley and Ava Wilson? Is there any sort of reason for them both to be targeted?”

There’s another beat of silence before Charlie asks, “Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m following a hunch,” Dean says vaguely. “There’s something weird going on and I’m just trying to get to the bottom of it. I’m sure you’ll see what I mean once you look up Ava Wilson.”

While there’s no chance in hell he’s going to mention the potential connection to the Angel, he’s confident in Charlie’s ability to put enough pieces together to get the picture. She’ll see what he sees.

“Ava Wilson,” she repeats; her tone makes it clear she’s writing the name down. “Alright, I’ll see what I can do. I should have some answers for you in a couple hours.”

“Thanks, Charlie, that’s…”

There’s a loud clang behind Dean, like a roof hatch slamming shut. Dean spins toward it so quickly that he nearly falls off of his perch on the corner of the roof, but as far as he can tell, the sound has no source. The roof is empty, and although there _is_ an access hatch over toward the opposite corner, if someone had come through it, they wouldn’t have been able to get out of sight so quickly. There are air ducts to potentially hide behind, sure, but they’re too far away from the hatch. Dean didn’t hear footsteps.

Something about it doesn’t feel quite right.

“...Dean? Dean, are you still there? What was that sound?”

Dean hears her, but he doesn’t answer. He can’t. He stands there at the edge of the roof, holding himself as still as he can while he scans his surroundings. There’s no movement, no additional sounds. After another few seconds, the back of Dean’s neck begins to prickle.

He turns again and looks down to the street. No one seems to be paying attention to him. No one seems to even notice that he’s up here, watching from the top of this apartment building like a costumed gargoyle. So why does he suddenly feel so exposed?

And that’s when he sees her.

The little girl from Greenwood.

She’s standing on the sidewalk in front of the Talley house. Her white dress is just as neat as it was the last time Dean saw her, and even from a distance, he can tell that her expression is equally devoid of emotion. Her face is turned up toward the sky, her eyes locked on Dean.

They’re on the opposite side of the city. How the hell did she find him again?

“Dean Winchester, so help me god!”

Dean startles, his entire body jerking. He stumbles back from the edge of the roof, breaking his line of sight with the little girl, and forces himself to focus on the voice in his earpiece.

“Charlie, I—Sorry. Sorry, I’m here. But I gotta go. Just find me some connections to follow up on, yeah?”

Charlie splutters. “But—wait! Dean, you’re not telling me anything here, and I don’t like it. And are you coming to—?”

He reaches up to his helmet and cuts off the call. When he goes back to the side of the building and looks down into the street, the little girl is gone. The disappearing act is only slightly less disconcerting than it was in Greenwood; this time, at least, she actually had time to leave in a normal way instead of simply blinking out of existence.

Not that that makes Dean feel any better, of course. No matter how falsely-innocent and creepy she is, the girl has to be _someone_. There has to be a reason why Dean has seen her at both of the crime scenes he’s investigating, despite how impossible it should have been for anyone to predict if or when he would show up at either location.

And until he figures out what that reason is, he’s going to make sure he stays away from her. He’s not dumb enough to rush that fight head-on.

Especially because he’s really starting to question if she’s actually a little girl at all.

 

 

 

 

West Seattle doesn’t have anything else to offer Dean after that, so he doesn’t stick around for too much longer. When he leaves, he doesn’t mean to fly anywhere in particular, but there’s something about the place where he ends up settling that feels right. _Fitting_ , even though Dean didn’t consciously realize where he was going until he was already there, because while nothing can alleviate the ball of tension in his stomach, this place seems like his best bet for gathering his wits.

He hasn’t been to Seattle Center since the Angel’s fall, but maybe now is a good time for a visit. He needs to ground himself. Be connected to the hero whose shoes he’s abruptly starting to feel like he’s drowning in.

He lands on top of the MoPOP, and from the vantage point he takes up, he has a perfect view of the crater left in the Space Needle’s lawn, south of the landmark building itself. It’s a funny thing, that crater—from what Dean has heard, no one in the city can figure out what to do about it. It works against Seattle Center’s perfectly manicured landscapes, which means some people are inclined to level it back out and restore the lawn’s previous look, but other people are convinced that it’s now a piece of history that needs to be preserved. There are calls for it to be a memorial to the Angel, or to the five civilians who were killed that same day.

They don’t want to forget the damage that was done to the city as a whole, that day.

Not that Dean can blame them for that; the effects of that day have proven to be long-lasting, as Dean himself can attest. No one, the Angel or the civilians who lost their lives, deserve to be forgotten in the interest of moving on. The Hunter may now be gaining popularity as the Angel’s successor, but he’s still a rookie in a field where there was once a well-loved professional. Of the two of them, _Dean_ isn’t the one with a Funko Pop! figure made in his image.

He doesn’t have the Angel’s record. He doesn’t have the Angel’s expertise. He may have given himself a fighting chance against criminals, but he also definitely doesn’t have any innate abilities that are making his job any easier.

He wonders what the Angel would do about a case like the one Dean is currently facing.

But that thought might be the most depressing one yet, because the Angel isn’t here, and he probably never will be again. It doesn’t matter what the Angel would do about this, because it rests entirely on Dean’s shoulders.

And anyway. Whether the Angel is dead or hiding, he did his time. He deserves to not have to carry the city on his own anymore. That’s why Dean took over his job, and why, if it were even a possibility, he probably wouldn’t go to the Angel for help on this even if he could.

Dean sighs and settles himself down to sit on the wavy, blue surface beneath his feet, letting his legs hang down the sloped side. It’s an awkward place to be sitting, but, well. He’s past the point of caring, and he’ll be long gone before anyone tries to tell him to leave, anyway.

So he sits. He watches the people in the park beneath him. The weather is surprisingly pleasant, with large patches of blue sky breaking through the typical, early-spring cloud cover.

The murders he has to sort through are much less pleasant.

He wonders what Charlie might find relating to Jake Talley and Ava Wilson. Dean is sure that any connections will be found between those two instead of either of their spouses; there has to be something to the fact that their causes of death differed from their families’, right? Why were only Ava and Jake shot, while the rest were killed with so much _violence_? What did they do to deserve that?

If they were the killer’s targets, they could have been saved for last. And if that’s the case, the brutality of their deaths wouldn’t have mattered. One quick, clean shot would have done it. Making those deaths look like suicides just had the benefit of hiding the actual _murder_ part.  

So then, Dean has to consider—was it a coincidence that put Ava and Jake on the same list, or a personal vendetta?

His gut tells him its the latter.

If it _is_ the latter, the person who is holding that vendetta is now likely also responsible for the little girl who has been plaguing Dean and the crime scenes. Dean can’t even begin to comprehend _how_ , but what other dots does he currently have to connect? What other clues are there? So far, all he has to go off of are the sightings of the Angel impersonator, and that little girl. His murderer and his enigma.

He suspects he won’t be able to puzzle out any more than that without additional information, though, so he resigns himself to stopping there. Without a connection between Jake and Ava, all he has is speculation, and speculations are a long way from answers. He’ll have to talk to Charlie and see what she’s found before he pushes any farther.

And to do that, he’ll have to go home.

Thankfully, the little girl hasn’t reappeared, which means Dean probably isn’t being followed. With that in mind, he scoots a bit higher up the MoPOP’s roof, and starts to stretch out his shoulders in preparation for the flight he’s going to have to make back to the University District.

He’s in the process of rolling out his left shoulder when someone speaks behind him.

“You’re new.”

Dean startles so hard he nearly loses his footing on the smooth metal beneath his boots, and though he whirls around as quickly as he can, he wobbles dangerously. This isn’t a good place to be standing. If someone is about to jump him, _this is not where he wants to be_.

When he sees who the other person is, however, the precariousness of his position quickly becomes the least of his concerns.

The white of the man’s suit is blinding, the color pure and unblemished. The twisted features of his mask are even more disconcerting up close than they had been when Dean saw them on TV. It feels like that was a lifetime ago, yet it may as well have been yesterday, for how vivid the image is in Dean’s mind.

He doesn’t know how the Devil found him, but he did. And if he’s talking to Dean, he’s doing so intentionally, not by coincidence.

Because there’s no way in hell the guy who killed the Angel is _accidentally_ talking to the Hunter.

And that means he’s likely been stalked by a murderous psychopath, which is absolutely something Dean is going to panic about when he can spare the bandwidth for it.

That isn’t going to happen now, though, because right now, that same murderous psychopath is standing directly in front of Dean, much too close for comfort, and that is a problem which cannot be put off. Terror grips him, so strong that he barely processes what it is the Devil said to him.

When he doesn’t get a reaction, the Devil lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Come on, kid, what happened to that plucky spirit I’ve seen so much of? You’re clearly an ‘Angel’ fanboy, or you wouldn’t be out here looking like a sad copycat and pouting over his grave, so you must know who I am.”

Dean can’t tell what he’s being baited toward, but he knows instinctively that rising to it is a bad idea, so he makes a simple demand. “What do you want?”

The Devil shrugs. “I’m assessing the competition. You know, I got rid of the Angel for a reason.” He starts to wander closer; Dean edges back as far as he can to compensate, but there’s only so far he can go when he’s already on the edge of the uneven roof. “So I’m sure you can imagine why I’m… frustrated, with your arrival.”

 _For a reason_. The incident all those weeks ago was a targeted hit, then. Considering the Devil seemed to appear in Seattle solely for his fight with the Angel, that isn’t really a surprising revelation, but knowing it with certainty makes something cold settle in Dean’s gut. This man deliberately destroyed the Angel. He saw something good in the world, and he set out to get rid of it.

And thanks to the people he killed, he _did_ get rid of it.

Dean clenches his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “Did you kill him?”

The Devil’s posture shifts, conveying his surprise at the question. “The Angel? Oh, no. He’s alive and… well, depressed. I didn’t need to kill him, I just had to knock him down a few pegs. And boy did I. You ever kill anyone, kid? You seem to have one of those bright kinds of souls where I’d imagine something like that would destroy you.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitches downward. The Devil rocks back on his heels, clearly pleased with himself.

“God, you’re just like him,” he says on a sigh. “Such a sourpuss. My baby brother would be absolutely head over heels for you. Actually, I’m sure he already is. Now that he’s staying holed up in his apartment all day, every day, what else is there to do but watch TV and fawn over the city’s newest masked heartthrob? Though I’m sure watching _you_ get the nightly feature on the news makes him hurt all over again.”

Shock goes through Dean like a punch to the stomach. He slides backward another half-step, stopping only when his heel starts to slide too far down the sloping metal. Standing against that edge is so much more terrifying than sitting with his legs over it had been. “The Angel is your brother?”

The Devil inclines his head. “And I can give you the same treatment I gave him. I’m a good guy; a real family man. But I’m not joking about my brother going gaga for you. Do you think it would hurt him even more if he knew he was responsible for _your_ death, too, little bird?”

The Devil takes a decisive step forward. Dean jerks back on instinct, but with nowhere left to go, all he does is wobble in place. He’s in the worst possible place to want to lose his balance right now; too high to survive a fall, too low to guarantee he can activate his wings in time to catch himself.

“It’s alright,” the Devil says with a low chuckle, one hand raised like he’s going to soothe Dean’s fears. “I won’t kill you right now. Not here, not yet. I have so much more to learn about you. I’ll figure out where _your_ weaknesses lie first. I’ll find who you love.”

He comes even closer, now crowding into Dean’s space. There’s a stink that hangs around him, like burnt hair and ash, and it presses on Dean’s lungs, makes it impossible for him to breathe. “And then I’ll clip your wings just like I clipped my brother’s. When I kill you, you’ll be grateful for it.”

Then the Devil moves back, and Dean is left gasping for the air he was deprived of while the man was in his face. There’s black spots in his vision and his ears are ringing. He almost misses the Devil’s next statement.

“Oh, and… I would suggest you stop sticking your nose into so many places where it doesn’t belong. It’s making me angry.”

Dean recognizes the threat for what it is—but if the Devil wants him to stop investigating those murders, he better not hold his breath. Dean won’t be intimidated by him. He _won’t_.

Not past right now, at least. Because right now, Dean is scared shitless.

The Devil starts to walk away, and Dean, determined not to give the man any more opportunities to strike than he’s already had, takes advantage of his turned back.

Dean turns, plants a foot on the bubbled metal of the roof, and pushes off of it to launch himself into flight. He runs away like a dog with its tail between its legs, going as fast as his suit will carry him through the streets. He detours every which way before he even allows himself to think about stopping, fueled by his fear.

By the time he’s confident no one could have followed him, Dean is trembling from head to toe. He collapses onto the roof of a low building not far from his apartment and claws at the clasp on his helmet until it comes loose. He rips the thing off as quickly as he can, then gasps at the relief that comes from getting his head out of its tight confines. The cool, evening air chills his sweat-damp hair and makes him shiver, but it also does wonders to clear his head, so he has no complaints.

He sits there, knelt on the roof with his gloved palms pressed flat against the cement until every breath he takes is no longer a battle. There’s no way of telling how long it takes, but he doesn’t really care, either. When he’s ready to face the world again, he turns to sit on his ass and presses the heels of his hands over his eyes. He needs to think, and right now, thinking means clearing his mind of everything else.

Once he’s adequately focused, he runs back through the new information he has been given.

The Devil is willing to kill people Dean loves to make a point.

The Devil is willing to kill _Dean_ to make a point to the Angel.

The Devil doesn’t want the Hunter around, just like he once didn’t want the Angel around.

The Devil and the Angel are brothers.

Dean doesn’t know which point on that list is the hardest to wrap his head around.

He doubts that the Devil was bluffing with his threats of death, but he _is_ hopeful that the man won’t be able to track him down as easily as he implied. He has done a damn good job of keeping the Hunter separate from Dean Winchester, so in theory, connecting the dots between the two shouldn’t be an easy task for anyone. Devil or otherwise.

But then, if the Devil is truly related to the Angel… There’s no telling what other kinds of inhuman abilities he has up his sleeve. He could be anyone, could do anything. And if he would deliberately ruin his own brother’s life, what chance does Dean have it escaping his wrath, if it’s turned his way?

He can’t stop being the Hunter. He won’t.

But he’ll have to be careful in other ways.

Once he’s gotten his panic under control, Dean puts his helmet back on, and finds a rooftop hatch to let himself into the building beneath him. He can’t fly back to his apartment building, not while the Devil could be hiding anywhere—and that means Dean has to walk.

Without a change of clothes to swap for his suit. Sometimes he keeps his duffel bag compressed and folded up in a pocket concealed against his thigh, but doing that means leaving the apartment and coming back home in nothing but his underlayers—and that’s far too suspicious for him to dare to do in the daylight, when Cas might see him going in or out.

His bag and the street clothes he had left in it are currently on a different rooftop, much closer to his apartment. Dean can’t risk going to it. Now that he’s landed, he refuses to take flight again, and he doesn’t want to lead the Devil that much closer to his home, anyway. However, going without his bag presents him with a serious challenge.

He can’t be seen going back to his apartment in his suit. He can’t be recognized as himself while _in_ his suit. And he needs to get home.

Luckily, the building he slips down into turns out to be a store. He keeps himself hidden in the back room until he manages to find a hooded sweatshirt large enough to pull on over his suit, which serves to hide the majority of the suit’s defining traits. He keeps his helmet on with it until he’s sure there’s no security cameras lurking in the stock room’s corners, then takes it off and replaces it with the sweatshirt’s hood. His helmet then goes into a rumpled shopping bag he scrounges up, and he slips out of the nearest fire exit, as incognito as he’s capable of getting.

He feels guilty for setting off the fire alarm for the sake of making his escape, but unfortunately, it’s a necessary evil.

He hurries the few blocks home, periodically checking over his shoulder all the while. Aside from a few strange looks, though, no one seems to pay him any mind; apparently the white across his calves isn’t recognizable enough to tip anyone off to who he is. Thank god for small mercies.

The grossly oversized hoodie he is wearing, plastered in a logo that says ‘The North West’ styled like ‘The North Face’, is probably the main reason the disguise works so well. Anyone he passes on the street probably assumes he’s homeless. Or a heroin addict, since god knows there’s so many of those in the area. Or maybe both. The sweatshirt and the used bag he’s carrying his helmet in really make for a perfectly stereotypical combo.

Regardless of what assumptions strangers make about him, all that matters is that Dean makes it home without drawing any unwanted attention, which he certainly does. As he lets himself into his apartment, he sags with relief.

And then he gets the door open, and he freezes in place.

There are people in the living room.

People who all turn and stare at him as soon as he crosses the threshold into the apartment. Dean catalogues them on instinct.

Benny. Jo. Charlie.

Cas.

The latter blinks at him over the back of the couch, looking guilty. “I… tried to get ahold of you. To warn you. Benny was supposed to host tonight, but—”

“But then my dumbass roommate spilled Gatorade everywhere and now our TV is fried. I told Cas when I passed him on campus today, and when I told ‘im I was gonna cancel, he volunteered your place instead.”

Dean stares. Benny flashes him a crooked grin.

“Sorry, brother. I’ll host next month, cross my heart.”

Everyone is still looking at him, expecting some kind of answer, and Dean… doesn’t know what to say. Forgetting about Mario Night is no one’s fault but his own, of course. He lost track of time. Hell, if he hadn’t just walked in on all of his friends gathered together and playing Mario Party, he probably wouldn’t have even realized that it was the fifteenth; the last few passed without much fanfare, since December’s Mario Night was waved for winter break and Dean hasn’t had to worry about hosting since then. He missed January’s, showed his face only for as long as he needed to in February, and now in March, at the crux between yet another Dead Week and Finals Week, it’s the absolute furthest thing from Dean’s mind. Plain and simple.

Today especially, he’s had much more pressing things to think about.

If the Devil finds out who he is, the friends currently gathered in his living room are the ones who will pay the price. He’ll go through them to get to Dean.

Fuck. Dean feels like he’s going to throw up just thinking about it.

“Dean?”

Charlie. Dean’s eyes slide toward her, and he’s surprised to see that she looks almost as afraid as he feels. She has her hand pressed over her mouth, and her eyes are wide and just a touch too bright. She may not have been online to watch his bodycam, but she isn’t an idiot. She can clearly see that something happened. Something _after_ Dean so abruptly hung up on her.

Dean sends her a pleading look, desperate for help.

Thankfully, she seems to get it. She schools her expression and scrambles up from the couch. “Dean, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Dean draws in a ragged breath. His hands are trembling again. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s just, uh—come this way so I can get changed.”

Before he can get more than a few steps toward the hallway, though, Cas asks, too sharply to be ignored, “What are you wearing? That isn’t your sweatshirt.”

Dean freezes, panic spiking through him. He stares at Cas like a deer caught in headlights, and Cas, likely interpreting the silence as guilt, narrows his eyes. He stands up and folds his arms tight across his chest, looking for all the world like an angry parent. His irritation sears into Dean, flaying him while all of their friends watch.

When Dean offers him no answer, Cas’ glare becomes even deadlier. “Where were you?”

Dean feels faint. If the Devil finds him, Cas is dead. “I was—”

Charlie steps in front of Dean like that might save him from Cas’ anger. “He was helping that friend of mine, Cas, I already told you that. Dorothy, the med student? I volunteered him for that field study.” She turns back to Dean and elbows him sharply in the ribs. “How’d it go? Did she just have you run laps?”

“Um.” Dean clears his throat and nods. “Treadmill, actually, but same thing. And then I, uh. Ripped my shirt on one of the machines. This was in the lost and found.”

Sure. That’s believable. Someone _would_ lose this kind of ugly ass sweatshirt.

Cas relaxes slightly, but his eyes are still narrowed to dangerous slits. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing that? And why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“Didn’t have my phone on me.”

There’s a beat of heavy silence. The tension in the living room is suffocatingly thick.

Finally, Cas relents. He turns his back, a clear sign that he is done with the conversation. “Right. Maybe we’ll have to talk more about this later, then.”

Fine. So be it. Later is much better than now, so Dean isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He retreats into his bedroom, Charlie following right on his heels.

When they’re alone, the door closed behind them, Charlie swats Dean on the shoulder and whispers frantically, “What the hell was that! Why the hell are you still in your suit? Why did you turn your earpiece off? You have to warn me before you pull shit like this, Dean! What happened out there?”

Dean wrestles his way out of his stolen sweatshirt much like a child would, thrashing more than is strictly necessary. When it’s off, he throws it to the floor like it has personally offended him, and shoves his fingers into his hair while he fights to level his breathing back out. He can’t do this right now. He can’t he can’t he _can’t_.

Charlie just watches him, startled into silence. A few moments pass before she asks again, much more gently than she had the first time, “Dean… What happened?”

“Had a run-in with the Devil.” Dean starts to claw at his suit, taking it off with the same lack of coordination which got him out of the sweatshirt. He hears Charlie gasp, but elects to ignore it. “Didn’t go perfectly. He threatened me. So, you know. Sorry if I’m not exactly in a peachy mood right now.”

“No, that’s…” Charlie takes a steadying breath. “That’s fair. Um. Shit.” She lowers herself to sit on the foot of Dean’s bed, unbothered by the fact that he’s now changing his clothes not five feet away from her. “I’ll watch the footage of it later. Did he have his mask on again? You didn’t find out who he is, did you?”

Dean shakes his head. If he saw the Devil’s face, if he had any idea who the guy is—he wouldn’t be nearly as threatened by him. The fear comes from the wild card aspect. He’s an enemy who could be anyone, he could be _everyone_. He could pass Dean on the streets a dozen times and Dean would be none the wiser.

Charlie’s frown deepens. “Right. Maybe once I get the video, I’ll try to run some voice analysis. There has to be _some_ way to figure out who this guy is. We can take him down.”

“No.” Now dressed in real clothes, his suit shoved into the back of his closet, Dean plants himself in front of Charlie, his arms folded across his chest. “There’s no _we_. You’re not going to do anything, you got me?”

Charlie blinks up at him, her jaw going slack. “Wait. What? What do you mean, I’m not going to do anything? That’s what I’m here for. That’s why you brought me into this.”

“And I’m kicking you out. I can do this alone from here on out. I’m going to take the bodycam out tonight, and I can do the same to the earpiece if I need to. You’re better off not being involved with this.”

“Dean.” Charlie stands, hands going to her hips. She looks pissed—not that that’s enough to change Dean’s mind. “You can’t do this alone. You need _someone_ , so don’t be an idiot. I don’t care what the Devil said to you, I’m not just going to—”

“Yeah, actually,” Dean interrupts, “you are. You’re fired. I can do this without you.”

Dean may as well have slapped Charlie with the way she flinches. But he can’t care. He _can’t_. He can’t let her be involved anymore. He can’t put her in danger.

He’ll apologize for being a dick after the Devil is no longer a threat.

After a drawn-out moment, Charlie dips her chin in a nod. “Okay, then. I can see this isn’t an argument I’m going to win.” She gives him a wide berth when she passes him en route to the door, but pauses when her hand is on the doorknob. “What did he say to you?”

Dean almost doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t want it to matter, doesn’t want her to know that some random psycho’s threats actually got through to him enough to make him do _this_. But then… He knows she’s going to watch the bodycam footage, anyway. So she might as well hear it from him, first.

“He said he’ll find my weaknesses. He’ll kill the people I care about.”

Charlie is quiet. Just when Dean is sure she isn’t going to respond, though, she says, “Sounds like you better find him first, then.”

And then she leaves, and Dean is left alone with his guilt. He drops his head into his hands and lets it consume him.

 

 

 

 

It’s not a surprise that Mario Night fizzles out after Dean’s arrival. Dean only hides away in his room for a span of twenty minutes or so, but by the time he emerges, everyone is gone and the living room is clean enough that there may as well not have been a gathering there to begin with.

Cas’ doing, of course. Dean finds him in the kitchen, his shoulders stiff as he scrubs at the small stack of dishes that are in the sink.

Dean leans against the counter and watches him for a few moments. He knows that Cas is pissed off at him, and maybe he can even understand why, but knowing that it’s coming doesn’t make it any easier for Dean to face Cas’ wrath.

Eventually, he sighs. Cas goes still at the sound, then slowly turns his face halfway toward Dean.

“I didn’t expect you to come back out,” he says. His voice is flat. Devoid of emotion.

Dean’s shoulders hunch automatically, like that might keep out the shame that his best friend’s disappointment puts in his bones.

It doesn’t.

He barely resists the urge to sigh again. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you. I left my phone here and I didn’t realize.”

Cas scoffs and turns back to his dishes. His movements are jerky, now, and he scrubs his sponge across the plate in his hand with far more force than is necessary. “You don’t owe me any sort of explanation, so I am not going to act as if you do, but given our friendship, and given the fact that we _live together_ , I would hope that I am deserving of one anyway. I am not so much of a hypocrite as to demand you stay home, or to tell me where you are at any given time.”

At least Cas _knows_ that asking would make him a hypocrite. Dean purses his lips to hold back a scowl and prompts, “But?”

“But.” Cas puts his more-than-cleaned plate in the drying rack beside the sink, then pulls down the hand towel that is slung over his shoulder to dry off his hands. He’s slow and methodical about it, taking his time before he turns around and leans his hips back against the counter. The towel gets thrown right back over his shoulder, and he folds his arms across his chest.

Dean loses a bit of his focus at the sight Cas makes. He looks like a damn _god_ , all casual and domestic and utterly gorgeous, with his wide shoulders and the biceps that barely stay contained in his t-shirt while they’re flexed like they are.

If the Devil finds him, Cas will be the first of Dean’s weaknesses to be identified. Probably the biggest one. He’ll be the Devil’s first target.

Dean scrubs his palms across his face and forces himself back to the subject at hand. Unpleasant though it may be. “On with it, Cas, come on. Get it off your chest.”

Cas sighs. “What’s going on with you?”

“There’s nothing ‘going on with me’. I’ve just been kept active with a lot of different shit, that’s all.”

Cas nods, but from the way his lips press thin, it’s clear he doesn’t quite believe it. Even though, technically, that’s the truest statement Dean has given in a while.

He _is_ being kept active, and there’s plenty of shit that’s contributing to that. If it were the same couple of incidents over and over again, he wouldn’t really be a good hero, would he? Just some lame vigilante, throwing himself at the same kind of threat again and again. And that’s not what the city needs. They need comprehensive protection. And they need someone willing to investigate murders and go up against superpowered psychopaths, evidently.

Cas asks, “Where were you today?”

 _That one_ makes Dean hesitate. An answer has already been established, thanks to Charlie’s quick lies earlier, but the story is just that. _A lie_.

And Dean would so much rather tell half-truths than feed his best friend complete bullshit. But, unfortunately, he’s beyond the point of having a choice.

“I was helping—” Fuck, what was Charlie’s friend’s name? Dean mentally scrambles, and feels the lie beginning to slip away before he can even use it until he abruptly remembers. “—Dorothy. Dorothy Baum, I had Chem 142 with her during freshman year.”

He thinks that might be true, too. Even if it isn’t, hopefully it will prove to be a good detail to add, just enough honesty (or pseudo-honesty) in a field of lies to make the entire thing appear true.

He continues, “She’s studying to be a physical therapist or something like that, so she needed people to run for this study of hers, and I—”

Cas makes a vague gesture with his hand. Dean cuts off instantly.

“I got that part from Charlie,” he says, and thank fuck for that, because now Dean doesn’t have to worry about crumbling under the pressure of sticking to a story he only partially knows. “It doesn’t explain why I didn’t hear about it until today, though. You told Charlie about it, evidently. I feel as though you once told me so much, and now you hardly talk to me at all. I never know where you are, or what you are doing. The runs we go on in the mornings are the only time I ever even _see you_ , and we spend that time in silence, save for basic small talk and deciding on which direction to go. It feels like—”

He stops himself mid-sentence. He stares at Dean so imploringly, like he needs him to understand something that Dean can’t even begin to fathom, and then drops his eyes to the floor in defeat when that point fails to get across.

There’s a phantom ache deep in Dean’s chest. He swallows hard. “Feels like what, Cas.”

“Like…” Cas’ throat bobs when he swallows, and he looks back up at Dean through his lashes. “It feels like you’re avoiding me. Like I’ve lost your trust, somehow. I don’t know what I could have done to have earned such a thing, but I want nothing more than to fix it. I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling like I’ve failed you somehow.”

And just like that, the phantom ache becomes incredibly real, a solid pain which constricts Dean’s heart and renders it impossible for him to breathe. All this time he’s spent avoiding Cas has been for Cas’ own good—hasn’t it? Because Cas is better off not knowing what it is Dean is really out doing, and he’s better off not being involved in things which could indirectly endanger him. He only let Charlie be involved out of necessity, and even that has come to a sour end, thanks to the Devil’s threats.

But even with the role Charlie played in the Hunter’s rise, she’s still not as at-risk as Cas is, or could be. She’s been involved with the Hunter, but Cas is connected to _Dean_ , and if the Devil attacks Dean to attack the Hunter…

If Cas doesn’t know that Dean is the Hunter, he’s less likely to put himself in harm’s way. Because, knowing Cas, there’s no chance he wouldn’t involve himself in _any_ mess, regardless of how dangerous it was, if it meant helping Dean. Cas has always been that brand of selfless, especially with the people that he’s close to. So letting him know that Dean’s life is in danger?

Dean can’t even imagine how terribly that would go over.

Cas certainly wouldn’t just _sit tight_ while Dean went out to face the Devil alone, and that right there is what would get Cas killed quicker than anything else. At least Charlie (hopefully) knows better than to throw herself in the Devil’s path.

But now Dean’s efforts to keep Cas safe through ignorance is being misconstrued, and Cas thinks he’s being intentionally avoided. He thinks the fact that Dean is never home is _personal_ , and his own fault to boot.

How the hell have they come to this?

“Cas… I’m not avoiding you.”

Cas snorts. “Right. Because your actions of late certainly reflect that.”

“I’m _not_.” Dean practically growls the objection, now pissed off that Cas is pushing this on him to begin with. It isn’t fair. He can see Cas’ perspective, sure, and understand how it came about, but for fuck’s sake, he’s doing his best. He’s keeping everyone as safe as he can. And he stepped into a role that _needed_ to be filled, he isn’t just out flaunting himself as a hero for the sake of his own ego—so really, it isn’t even his fault that this is happening. So much of what is happening is beyond his control. What else is he supposed to do?

Should he have left the city to suffer? Let the Angel go forgotten? Let the Devil _win_?

Fuck no.

Cas looks like he’s going to argue more, but Dean doesn’t give him the chance.

“I’m not avoiding you. Being busy isn’t a personal attack, alright? Or were you actually avoiding _me_ all those times you ran off with Balthazar? Because you know, sometimes, it definitely felt like it. Was that because you hated me? Couldn’t stand to be around me, hang out like normal people?”

There’s a flash of _something_ through Cas’ eyes, gone too quickly for Dean to figure out what it is, and then his roommate’s upper lip curls into a snarl. The tightness in Dean’s lungs returns, and as the energy in the room shifts, all of the hair on Dean’s arms stand on end. It feels dangerous. Destructive. And Dean is too much of a masochist to keep from throwing himself right in its path.

“Come on. I have to talk, but you don’t? That’s bullshit and you know it. Just tell me. Almost the entire two _years_ I’ve known you. Were you avoiding me?”

Cas scowls at him. “No. Of course not.”

Dean nods, but he’s only barely not scowling in his own right. “Of course not. Because we’re friends. Right? So I always knew that even if you were choosing Balthazar over me, and even if you wanted to spend all of your free time at some stupid party or another, I knew we were still friends. So really, Cas.” He spreads his hands. “What’s so different about you having other things going on, and _me_ having other things going on? You don’t have to stay cooped up in here all day every day, but I do?”

For a long moment, Cas just stares at him. That unreadable look is back in his eyes, bolstered by rage, and Dean very nearly withers beneath it. He holds steady, though, his shoulders squared and his chin lifted until, eventually, Cas looks away. The suffocating tension that has been filling the kitchen splits and ebbs away.

“No,” Cas says, quiet but firm. “No, I wasn’t avoiding you. I just had… places to be. I often wished I could have been here with you instead.”

Dean huffs a dry laugh at that. He has to, because if he doesn’t, he thinks the sentiment might choke him up. He doesn’t know why Cas would lie, but… Can it actually be true? That instead of being gone all the time, Cas might have genuinely preferred to be with Dean, at the same time when Dean was also wishing for him to be home?

Maybe, maybe not. Either way, he can’t let himself get hung up on the possibility, so he snipes in return, “I guess that’s how addiction works, isn’t it?”

The line clearly hits home, because Cas flinches. Guilt rushes through Dean at the sight, but he holds his ground, determined not to lose his footing _now_ , after he’s pushed his argument so far. But really, Cas _should_ feel bad about this. Dean isn’t such an asshole that he’s going to hold Cas responsible for having an addiction to begin with, because god knows there’s more to those kind of messes than most people want to admit, but now that Cas is trying to turn it around? Play up his own innocence, at Dean’s expense?

No. Dean isn’t having it.

“It was more complicated than that,” Cas tries to object, but his conviction is gone. He sounds meek, now. Unsure. “There’s more to it than you realize—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Cas, you were going to parties, not reading a will. It’s really not all that complicated.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to that, and Dean is glad for it. He isn’t an idiot, so he doesn’t want to be treated like one. And he’s heard more than enough from Balthazar over the years to have a pretty solid idea of how Cas’ partying tends to go, anyway—booze and drugs and weed and grinding on strangers. It was a lifestyle that destroyed and consumed, but not one that was in any way difficult to understand. _Complicated_ isn’t the right word for it.

(Though, one time Balthazar did corner Dean in the University Bookstore boasting about the ‘ménage à twelve’ they had taken part in, and that _does_ sound complicated. But that’s very much beside the point, and also something that Dean is still determined to never think about, ever, in any detail.)

Dean sighs and rubs a hand down his face. “Listen, I just. I don’t want to fight with you, okay? I don’t. Not over something as dumb as this, especially. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately, I’m sorry I forgot about Mario Night. I’ll try to get better about talking to you. And I’ll try to be _less_ busy, okay? This quarter ended up being crazy, you know how it goes.”

Even though it’s only by Charlie’s good graces that Dean managed to pass the quarter with decent grades. He mentally marks that down as yet another way he owes her.

He’ll pay her back by not letting the Devil find her.

Cas mirrors Dean’s sigh, and pulls down the towel that is still slung over his shoulder to wring between his hands. “Yes. I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to…”

He trails off, but Dean knows what he means, anyway. They don’t typically fight.

And Dean doesn’t want to _keep_ fighting. It’s too exhausting, and Dean has too much other shit on his mind, anyway. This apology that they’ve struck—it’s probably the best that he can hope for right now. He doesn’t have the energy to push his luck.

So he gives Cas a thin smile and starts to back out of the kitchen, not bothering to pretend to be subtle. “I spent the afternoon working out, so I think I’m gonna head to bed, alright? But. Good talk.”

“Sure,” Cas says, and that’s all the permission Dean needs to turn and leave. Best not to look at Cas anymore than he already is and risk losing his nerve. Risk getting _pulled in_. Because as he is, he can walk away and get back on task, put his priorities back into the neat little boxes where they belong. If he stays—

If he stays, the itch that he can feel growing under his skin might push him to do something he’ll regret.

Cas calls after him, “Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean closes himself into his room without returning the sentiment.

 

 

 

 

Despite going straight to bed, Dean spends the next several hours tossing and turning. His mind refuses to slow, and so long as his eyes are closed, all he sees is a warped mask and a white suit. It’s more stress-inducing than it’s worth, so he ends up giving up at some point between two am and whenever it is that his alarm is set to go off—it’s too depressing to track the actual hour, so he elects to pretend he doesn’t see it.

When he gives up on sleep and picks up his phone (much too bright in the dark of his room), he finds an email from Charlie waiting in his inbox. The subject line grabs his complete attention, and makes the glare of the screen worth putting up with.

_Jake Talley + Ava Wilson_

Dean pushes himself upright and squints down at his screen, his blankets bunching around his waist. The text of the email itself is slow to come into focus; he reads it through once, skimming to pick out keywords and to see how much Charlie has found him (the answer is, _a lot_ ), then immediately flicks his thumb to head back to the top and start again.

 

_Hey -_

_Don’t try to tell me not to be involved anymore, this email was already ready to go earlier today. Judging by what I found, I think you’re going to want to see this, anyway._

 

Charlie’s findings are detailed from there. From what Dean can tell of each person’s basic personal history, Jake and Ava shouldn’t have had much reason to know one another. Jake was an army vet, Ava was a receptionist at a dental clinic. Their records were generic, and almost suspiciously free of any blemishes. There was _nothing_.

Until, that is, Charlie got into their sealed juvenile records. Because as it turns out, Jake Talley, Ava Wilson, and a handful of other kids their age were all investigated for what’s only described as ‘cult-like activities’.

And a homicide.

When Dean reads that, he says aloud, “Jesus Christ.”

Overall, what Dean gathers is that the group Jake and Ava were involved with was bad news. Most of their activities were hard to track, save for their final killing of one of their fellow members, and in the aftermath, the consensus from psychiatric professionals is that they were essentially brainwashed. They claimed not to remember most of what they went through, and couldn’t explain why they had followed their leader so blindly.

They only ever referred to themselves and their fellow cult members as ‘Azazel’s Children’, but the man who was eventually named as being responsible for both the cult and the ritualistic murder of one of its members was named Lucifer.

The rest of Charlie’s research is pretty thorough, but it also has noticeable gaps. She was able to determine where the cult originated—Chicago—but doesn’t have any insight into why several of Azazel’s Children ended up in Seattle, later in their lives. She named the man who was outed as the cult leader, even though that information seems to have been pretty thoroughly buried, but there’s nothing in her write-up that explains why he wasn’t arrested. Hell, he doesn’t even seem to have been _questioned_.

He should have been considered the kingpin, the key to the entire Azazel’s Children operation, yet he is never referred to by his full name. He’s only _Lucifer_ , no surname. There’s nothing that says he wasn’t able to be found, which implies that he was around, so then—what gives? Why not hold him accountable for the young teenagers he corrupted, or for the life that was lost?

There’s no reasonable explanation for why any authorities would have just… let him go. Right? Dean might still be pretty new to the crime-fighting industry, but even he knows that someone as dangerous as this Lucifer guy must be should never be allowed to walk free. He shouldn’t have been ignored.

So how the fuck did he manage to get away clean?

Including Ava Wilson and Jake Talley, there were eight total teenagers involved in the Azazel’s Children group. Back when they were active, the member who was killed was a girl called Lily. Of the remaining seven—Ava Wilson, Jake Talley, Andy Gallagher, Ansem Weber, Max Miller, Scott Carey, and Rose Holt—all but two are now dead. Ava was the most recent death, but Scott Carey died between her murder and Jake Talley’s. Andy Gallagher is reported as a missing person, but Charlie’s note beside his name reads, “probably alive, last seen in Idaho”. Rose Holt, on the other hand, seems to be living a quiet life in Tacoma, Washington, south of Seattle, undisturbed and free of danger for the time being.

That’s a lot of death to have come from one group of Chicago teenagers, whether they were involved in ‘cult-like activities’ or otherwise.

Cas is from Chicago, Dean abruptly remembers. Maybe he remembers something about Azazel’s Children from back when it went down, or maybe he grew up hearing about it from his older family members and classmates in school. People tend to know dark history about their home cities, right? Not that Dean knows anything interesting about Lawrence, granted, aside from the house fire that killed his parents, but Charlie’s always talking about Ted Bundy’s time at the University of Washington, so it’s not impossible that Cas would know _something_. Right? Maybe he knows the name ‘Lucifer’.

Dean will have to ask him.

Probably when it’s _not_ four in the morning, though.

The reminder of the current, ungodly hour makes Dean wince. Charlie’s email has only managed to scratch the surface of Azazel’s Children, and he needs to do a hell of a lot more digging into Lucifer, but now probably isn’t the best time for it. He needs to be functional tomorrow. He’ll inevitably have to deal with Cas again, after all, and asking him about a cult leader is bound to make things between them even more tense than they already are. He has to be ready for that.

He locks his phone and drops it onto his nightstand, far enough away where he won’t be tempted to pick it up again, then flops back down to his bed and throws an arm across his face to force his eyes to close. His thoughts are even busier now than they had been forty-five minutes ago, which isn’t exactly ideal for sleeping, but, well. He needs it to happen, now, so he’ll do it off of determination alone. Eventually.

He’ll sleep. And then he’ll find out who the hell Lucifer is.

 

 

 

 

After a couple miraculous hours of sleep, Dean rises early, too antsy to enjoy his bed for as long as he normally might. And, as soon as he’s up, he leaps right back into the Azazel’s Children case. He reads through Charlie’s email one more time to soak it all back in, then hops in the shower while he mulls it over. As a whole, everything relating to Azazel’s Children is _big_. Dean got into hero work to stop robberies and muggings, not murders, and definitely not cult-related murders.

But now it’s turned local. Two of Azazel’s Children have died under the Hunter’s watch, and one of the two surviving members is in Tacoma, only an hour or so south of Seattle. Since so many of the former members ended up living in the same general area, they must have kept in some kind of contact, so Rose Holt is sure to know that Jake and Ava are dead—and Dean can’t let the same fate reach her.

He recaps, going over the basic information one more time.

Two former cult members have been found dead in their homes in what look like murder-suicides. The only person who could have a vendetta against them is a mostly-nameless figure somewhere in the wind. No matter how their deaths may have been staged, and no matter how it might have been pulled off, Lucifer had to have been the one to kill them. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

Which also means that it was Lucifer who was spotted around the murder sights, looking like the Angel. The Devil is trying to get the Hunter to stop prying into those same incidents, and his personal vendettas.

Now Dean has to determine what the hell he has to gain from knowing the Devil’s true first name.

When he gets out of the shower, Dean pulls on clothes and a towel through his hair, then scoops up his laptop and heads out to the living room to camp out on the couch for the foreseeable future. Cas isn’t up yet, and probably won’t be for a while yet, so for now, he’s going to take advantage of what time he has.

He settles in, opens up Google, and types in, _Lucifer in Chicago_.

The next hour passes in a blur of news articles, blog posts, and poorly-scanned documents found in questionable archives. It’s not a hugely productive hour, since by the end of it Dean is no closer to knowing who Lucifer truly is than he had been at the start, but he has a better idea of _what_ he is.

If Lucifer is the Devil, then Dean already knows that he has inhuman abilities. And if he’s the Angel’s brother (and doesn’t _that_ explain their rivalry, of course someone as good as the Angel would fight his cultist, murderer of a brother), the range that those abilities might have is pretty much limitless. Still, though, even those limitless possibilities begin to solidify.

The Devil was able to take down a helicopter downtown just by pointing at it, which implies that he potentially has some sort of telekinetic abilities. Jake and Ava both appeared to have killed their spouses before killing themselves, which could have also been puppeteered by Lucifer. But did he make them do it with mental influence, or did he force their hands in a more direct way? Was it mind control, or muscle control?

As Dean ends up seeing for himself in the original police reports from the Azazel’s Children incident, Lucifer was never brought in for questioning, even after several members of the cult named him as their leader. They blamed him for their involvement in the cult, for the damage they did, and for the life they took. The exact story is muddled, but Lucifer was clearly at the center of it. He corrupted a group of teenagers, and on top of that, somehow convinced the police to leave him out of it.

Definitely mind control.

The realization tugs at something in Dean. If the Devil can control minds…

Dean thinks back to his own encounter with the villain. The Devil had found him fairly easily when he was downtown. He didn’t know who Dean was, but he knew where he had been, and he knew that he was looking into Jake Talley and Ava Wilson’s murders. He knew that he had gone to both locations. He could have used Ava Wilson’s neighbor as a spy, but—

_The little girl._

“Dean?”

Dean startles and slams his laptop shut. Cas is standing at the end of the hall, squinting at him from beneath his mass of bedhead. “Uh. Hey, Cas. Morning.”

Cas’ squint intensifies. “You’re up early. Are you studying for a final?”

Perfect excuse. Dean latches onto it. “Yeah, I’ve got that 331 test coming up. Should go fine, but I was up, so I was just… going over notes.” He’s taking 331, right? God, he hopes so. He sets his laptop on the coffee table and pushes up to his feet, then hurries to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee before Cas can complain that there’s none ready.

“Right,” Cas says, drifting after him. He rubs at one of his eyes, then leans back against the kitchen counter while Dean fusses with the coffee maker. “I heard you up late last night, so I’m simply surprised that you rebounded so quickly.”

Dean pauses and stares over his shoulder at Cas, probably looking like a deer in headlights. “How’d you know I was up late?”

Cas answers with an easy shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Your bed creaks when you toss and turn too much. I can hear it through the wall.”

The thought of Cas being able to hear his bed creaking through the wall makes Dean’s face heat, so he quickly turns back to his coffee prep without commenting on it. As long as Cas doesn’t know exactly how late he was up or what he was doing, Dean is golden, anyway. Once the coffee is brewing, he turns and starts rifling through a cupboard for something to eat.

“Nutella?” he offers, still not looking at Cas.

“Sure. Thank you.”

Dean pulls out the jar of Nutella and a package of pitas, then sets about smothering them with the Nutella. He folds his first one in half and passes it to Cas, who grunts a thanks before tearing into it. _Breakfast of champions_ , Dean thinks, then stuffs his own mouth with pita.

Perfect for avoiding awkward conversation, at least.

They eat their breakfasts in silence, and only move from their respective places when the coffee maker beeps. Dean gets creamer out of the fridge, while Cas pulls mugs out of the cabinet and fills them with coffee. They’re a well-oiled machine, moving around each other perfectly. After, they take their mugs out to the living room and sit side-by-side on the couch to drink.

Dean glances toward his laptop. He won’t try to open it while he’s sitting next to Cas, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still at the forefront of his thoughts. He’s nowhere near done with Lucifer, he knows. If he starts viewing the Devil like he did the Angel, Dean might even be able to figure out breaking down how his abilities work. Sure, he’d be working on more of a time crunch than he ever did with the Angel, but if he could come up with a decent hypothesis on how the Angel controls and conducts natural energy, surely he can—

“Dean.”

Dean blinks, only realizing how much he has been spacing out now that Cas has interrupted him. He casts his friend a sheepish grin. “Sorry, just thinking about some stuff. Didn’t sleep much, as you remember.”

Cas frowns, but doesn’t push the subject. He _does_ , however, put his coffee mug on the table and pull his legs up onto the couch so that he can turn toward Dean.

Dean tenses in anticipation.

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Cas says. “Something that you said last night.”

Shit. What could Dean have possibly said last night? They were _fighting_ —he didn’t slip up and say something he shouldn’t have in the heat of the moment, did he? There’s no way he said something that could have Cas figuring him out, at least. He did call Cas out on his addiction, though, which could reasonably bite him in the ass.

“I never chose Balthazar over you.”

Dean stares at him. “What?”

The corner of Cas’ mouth ticks up into a faint smile. “That’s what you said when we talked about avoiding one another. You thought I had been choosing Balthazar over you. That isn’t the case.”

“Oh.” Dean had forgotten he said that, and he’s surprised that Cas _didn’t_. Any comments he had made about Balthazar were meant to be offhanded ones, so if he said that Cas had been choosing Balthazar over him, it was a fact, not an accusation. He shifts in place, feeling awkward now that the subject has been brought back up and shoved into the spotlight. “Cas, I didn’t mean it like that. I was trying to make a point about us doing things other than sitting around at home. I shouldn’t have made it about _choosing_ , it’s not fair to pit myself against—”

“No,” Cas interrupts, shaking his head. “You said it the way you meant it, and now I’m correcting you.”

Okay, then. Dean gulps. “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

Cas shrugs. “I know you fairly well. You’re easier to read than you think.” He hedges slightly closer on the couch, his knee bumping against Dean’s. “And that is why I am now clarifying and telling you that I never chose Balthazar over you. He may be a very good friend, but not in the same capacity that you are.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. He can feel this getting into dangerous territory, now, and because of that, he can feel himself starting to panic. “Cas, you don’t have to defend yourself on this. You don’t have to compare me and Balthazar, either, okay? You’re allowed to have more than one friend. You’re allowed to like one more than the other, or in different ways. And you’re allowed to want to _date_ one more than the other.”

Cas wrinkles his nose. “Date? Do you… Dean. Do you think I was _dating_ Balthazar?”

For a brief moment, Dean’s thoughts short-circuit. Yeah, that’s what he thought. That’s what he _knows_. It should be obvious, right? But now that Cas is questioning that, everything Dean thought he knew is threatening to crumble. “Um. Yeah? I mean, you were always hanging out with him, and he made it sound like…”

Cas sighs and rubs a hand down the side of his jaw. “Fuck. He _would_ have made you think something like that, the prick. Always trying to make my life more difficult than it needed to be.”

“So… you _weren’t_ dating, then.”

“Absolutely not.” Cas looks so disgusted by the idea that for a single, micro-fraction of a second, Dean actually catches himself feeling bad for Balthazar—he may be a bastard, but shit, for _Cas_ to make _that_ kind of face about him? Yikes.

Then, of course, Dean remembers that he has solid reasons for hating Balthazar. And if Cas feels so strongly about not dating him, there must be a damn good reason for it, anyway.

Dean doesn’t expect to get that reason, but Cas explains, unprompted, “Balthazar is my cousin. Distantly related, but related nonetheless.”

“Your—”

“Cousin, yes.”

 _Cousin_. It’s so at-odds with the narrative that Dean has been believing for years, but now that he thinks back and considers it, the revelation might actually make sense. Dean _assumed_ Cas and Balthazar were dating. He was never told that. And furthermore, despite all of Balthazar’s dirty jokes and insinuations, Dean can’t actually recall a time when Balthazar said something explicit about _himself and Cas_. He hinted about Cas being a hot piece of ass and getting laid at their various parties, but when it came down to it, it was Dean who drew the line between those comments and the potential of a relationship.

He created Calthazar all on his own. Because he was, what, bitter? Jealous?

As soon as he thinks the word, Dean realizes the truth of it. His face heats with a blush.

Cas is staring at him, his eyebrows scrunched together as if he’s not sure how Dean is going to end up processing this new revelation. “I… truly thought that you knew,” he says carefully. “I’m sorry that you didn’t.” He pauses for a beat, then adds, “Balthazar obviously never made our familial relationship clear. I would assume he thought it was more fun to taunt you than to tell you any kind of true, personal information.”

“God, he’s such a dick, that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do.” Dean sets his mug down beside Cas’ so that he can drop his face into his hands. He’s so _stupid_. How did he not realize that they weren’t dating?  How was he so thoroughly convinced that they were?

This is why he hates Balthazar.

Beside him, Cas huffs a laugh. “He is a dick, yes. I don’t think this is a new revelation, is it?” He leans forward, then, and lays his hand on Dean’s thigh. The small point of contact sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. “Really, though, Dean, I am sorry. But looking back, I suppose this does make a lot of sense.”

Dean raises his face out of his hands to glare at Cas. “And what about it makes sense, huh? How much I hate Balthazar?”

“That too,” Cas answers cooly. He’s smiling now, the expression so soft that Dean couldn’t look away from it even if he tried. “More than that, I was going to say it makes sense because I _do_ like you and Balthazar in different ways, as you said. And… I do want to date one of you more than the other. I’m beginning to understand why that has never been obvious to you. Not in the correct direction, at least.”

Dean’s mind wipes completely blank at that. Because it sounds an awful lot like… No. No, Cas can’t be saying _that_. Right? Can he?

Dean has to be misunderstanding.

He repeats, clinging to the one indisputable fact that he now knows, “Balthazar is your cousin.”

Cas’ smile flickers, nervousness shining through. “Yes. So I don’t mean him.”

“So you mean…”

“ _Dean_.”

It happens much too fast, yet impossibly slowly at the same time. Dean sees every instant of it, every slight shift across Cas’ face, the slow fluttering of his eyelashes. He sees it, but it happens within the span of a single heartbeat, and so he fails to process what is happening until it _is_ happening.

Cas leans in and brushes their lips together. It’s a tentative touch at first, testing and cautious, but when Dean doesn’t reject it, it becomes bolder. Firmer.

Cas is kissing him. He’s kissing _Cas_.

Dean’s breath hitches in his chest, and before he fully knows what he’s doing, he has both of his hands fisting in the front of Cas’ shirt, pulling him in impossibly closer and ensuring they stay connected. Cas’ mouth is warm and tastes like coffee and Nutella; when he digs a hand into Dean’s hair, it sends tingles across Dean’s scalp and down his spine. The sensation makes him gasp, and Dean’s eyes fly open—when had he even closed them?

His next gasp comes for a completely different reason than the first.

Over Cas’ shoulder, Dean can see a man in a white suit. There’s no mask, just an unremarkable face and plain, ash-blond hair, but it’s impossible not to recognize him, anyway. Dean only sees him for a fraction of a second before he’s gone again, but that small glimpse is more than enough.

He can’t do this. He _can’t_. He let himself forget that, but his subconscious apparently isn’t letting it go so easily. He can’t say he’s a fan of his mind’s tactics to remind him, because he could have gone _without_ the terrifying hallucination of his greatest fear, thank you very much, but at least it’s effective.

The Devil could show up at any minute. He probably _won’t_ , because despite what his mind is trying to tell him he’s seeing, there’s no reasonable way for the Devil to actually track him down yet, but even that doesn’t eliminate the possibility.

His hands are still locked into Cas’ shirt, but that grip now holds Cas at bay instead of right up against him.

Cas, for his part, looks flustered beyond belief. He stares at Dean like he can’t comprehend why the kissing has _stopped_ , then looks back over his shoulder to the spot where Dean’s eyes are still fixed on nothing. “Dean? What’s wrong? I thought we—”

“Cas.” The single word is ground out of him, as breathless and pained as he feels. He closes his eyes, because god help him, he can’t look at Cas while he does this. “Cas, I—We can’t do this.”

Cas exhales in a rush; Dean feels it against his skin and, despite himself, shivers in the wake of it.

“We… can’t? But I thought…”

Dean’s next breath rattles through him, a sob dangerously close to the surface. “We can’t. I’m sorry, Cas, I just—I can’t do this to you. I can’t put you in danger, I can’t let you get hurt, not because of me.”

Dean opens his eyes again just in time to see a myriad of emotions flit across Cas’ face. Confusion ends up at the forefront, though pain shines just behind it. And, Jesus, why do Cas’ eyes have to be so damn expressive? The light in them cuts right through Dean, slicing down any hopes of a defense he may have hoped to build.

“Get hurt?” Cas echoes. “Dean, I… I don’t understand. Why would _I_ be in danger? What could possibly—”

No. No, Dean can’t be expected to explain that one, too. Having to tell Cas no is hard enough already, the last thing Dean needs to do is factor _that_ conversation in on top of this already nightmarish one.

And this definitely is a nightmare. All the time that Dean has spent fawning over his best friend, all the hours that have been lost to fantasizing and daydreaming and wishing—for all of that to come down to Cas kissing him on their couch should have been a dream come true. And yet, the Devil has turned it into the worst possible thing that could have happened.

Dean wants to cry.

“I can’t…” He lets go of Cas’ shirt and shoves up off of the couch. He needs to move. Needs to _leave_. He turns his back on Cas and doesn’t let himself look back, and after a harried detour to his room to grab his duffle bag, he leaves the apartment. The front door slams shut behind him, a deafening punctuation for the end of their conversation.

Dean isn’t too proud to admit that he runs. He runs, because he can’t face Cas, or the friendship that he no doubt destroyed by turning Cas down, or the emotional turmoil that he has gone into himself. Because doing this, turning Cas down—it fucking _hurts_.

And Dean, coward that he is, would so much rather ignore that hurt than have to face its consequences.

He’ll let that be a problem for the future.

He probably doesn’t need his suit, he knows, and it’s probably not even wise for him to go out as the Hunter when he already knows he might struggle to keep a clear head, but Christ, he can’t bring himself to care. It’s the last of his concerns, in fact. He needs a distraction, not more worries. He climbs up the first fire escape he can, and once he’s tucked away on the rooftop, out of sight, he changes into his suit and throws himself into the open air over the street.

He flies without direction, and hardly pays any mind to where he is going. He doesn’t keep his eyes open to potential criminal incidents, and keeps his earpieces firmly set to _off_. He’s out under the guise of the Hunter, but for the first time while wearing his suit, he lets himself be entirely selfish.

When he eventually lands, it doesn’t matter where, so he doesn’t bother to track it. All he knows is that his chest is so constricted he can barely breath, and his heart is beating so fast he can _taste it_. He drops to his knees on the rooftop while he struggles to gather himself, not even bothering to unhook his arms from his wings. He appreciates the way that they wrap around his shoulders, anyway; with everything going to hell as it is, it’s nice to have a physical shield to make him feel a little more protected.

Though when it comes to Dean’s life falling apart, there’s really not all that much that the Hunter can do to help. All the tech he put into his suit, all the days he’s spent saving people and stopping crime and building up his reputation—what the hell is the point of it all? Where has it gotten him besides _here_ , hyperventilating on a rooftop with the knowledge of what Cas’ lips feel like against his own, but also the knowledge that he can never feel them again?

If he weren’t the Hunter, he’d still be on that couch, tangled up with Cas without a care in the world. He’d be _happy_. Cas would be happy.

Instead, he’s left wondering if Cas will ever even want to speak to him again, after this. Would Dean, if their situations were reversed?

It’s a depressing train of thought to follow.

Dean doesn’t know how much time passes while he mopes, but as the sun climbs higher in the sky, his breathing slowly steadies out, and his emotional turmoil steadies. It doesn’t go away, of course, because he isn’t that lucky, but he’d rather feel hollow than heartbroken any day.

Now, he needs a distraction.

His knees feel weak when he gets to his feet, so he doesn’t rush through the movement, and leans heavily against a nearby air duct while he waits for his balance to kick in. In the meantime, he squints out over the city and tries to get his bearings. He can see a body of water not too far ahead of him, which he’s pretty sure is Lake Union. He didn’t fly too far from home, then. Good.

He’s halfway tempted to turn his earpiece to the police scanner to find somewhere to go, but ultimately decides against it. He’d rather not get involved in something big right now. He’s not on his A game, he already knows, and that means he should stick to the basics. Find someone to save and then save them. No complications. No need for overthinking.

It’ll be just what he needs.

He turns around, ready to take off south-bound, then stops dead in his tracks.

The little girl is standing closer to him than she ever has, only a few yards away from him on the otherwise empty roof. At this distance, her white dress is revealed to be tattered and worn around the edges, and her skin is grey and sallow. Her blond hair, hanging down past her shoulders, is limp and straw-like. There’s still no emotion in her eyes, but as soon as Dean is looking at her, her lips twist up into a sickeningly-sweet smile.

“You’re not real,” Dean says aloud, though if it’s directed to himself or to the image of the girl, he doesn’t know or care. He’s convinced of it, though, because she _can’t_ be real. She’s the Devil. The Devil is in his head, showing him something that’s designed to scare him, and fuck, it’s _working_.

“You’re not real,” he repeats, this time with more conviction. His hands curl into fists, metal feathers flexing along his arms. “Get out of my head.”

The girl flickers, turning translucent for a fraction of a second. Part of Dean is thrilled by the sight, because it means that he’s _right_ , but his satisfaction is short-lived. The girl’s smile widens and her eyes roll back in her head, leaving nothing but white. When she speaks, her voice is unnerving, an adult man’s voice layered with the expected child’s voice, but both echoing like they’re coming from miles away.

“You should go home, little bird.”

At first, Dean thinks it’s a threat like the last one the Devil made to him, a reminder to stick to his own business and stop being the Hunter—but then he realizes that the truth is probably much more literal than that, and his blood runs cold. He takes flight from exactly where he’s standing, too frantic to take the running start he typically would. He doesn’t give a damn about the little girl or what’s controlling her, because right now, there’s only one thing in the world that he cares about.

 _Cas_.

He flies home as fast as his suit will carry him, his heart in his throat. He must have been sloppy when he left, distracted by the kiss, he must have been _seen_ , he must have missed all sorts of warning signs, because he _left Cas unprotected_.

When he reaches their apartment building, Dean goes straight for their small balcony. He’s never gone through the sliding door as the Hunter, too concerned about being seen from the street or by Cas, but right now, neither concern crosses his mind. If this is how Cas finds out about him, so be it.

The balcony door is already ajar when Dean reaches it.

He starts to chant under his breath, “No, no, _no_ —”

He stumbles to a landing on the balcony and shoulders the door the rest of the way open, knocking his elbows against his wings to unhook them as he goes. The apartment is a wreck—the couch has been tipped on its back, the bookcase looks like it was hit by a body, with shelves broken and books scattered all across the floor, and the lamp that belongs on the side table has been reduced to shards of glass amongst the rest of the mess.

Textbook signs of a struggle.

 _At least Cas fought back_ , Dean catches himself thinking. Not that that’s any sort of consolation right now, of course, because fuck, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been this terrified in his life. This is all because he left. It’s his fault. He left, and now Cas is—

There’s a scuff behind Dean, in the direction of the hallway toward the bedrooms. Dean whirls to face it, hands balling into fists while he prepares to use his suit’s defenses.

“Cas.” Relief crashes through Dean, so strong that his knees threaten to give out from under him. He sways in place, then staggers forward a step. He needs to make sure Cas is okay, needs to be able to see the actual, physical proof. He runs his eyes over Cas, checking him for any signs of injury. “Cas, are you—are you okay? Was the Dev—um. A guy. Was there a guy here?”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “Hunter. You’re looking for the Devil?”

“I—” Hunter. Cas called him the _Hunter_. Maybe Dean hasn’t completely blown his identity? He isn’t quite sure he’d care at this point, since Cas is in _danger_ , but maybe Dean has some lucky stars to be thanking. He flexes his gloved hands. “Yeah. The Devil. Was he here?”

Cas looks him over, but the way he does it seems… off. His eyes are cold, his gaze clinical and detached; it isn’t the friendly sort of look that Dean is used to receiving when he’s being seen _as Dean_.

Beyond the lack of familiarity, though, it also strikes Dean as just… un-Cas-like.

Cas’ head remains tilted at its angle when he answers, “I’m not sure why you think he would have been. Has something happened?”

 _Off_.

Dean swallows hard and says neutrally, “Call it a hunch.” He glances halfway back into the trashed living room and hooks his thumb toward it. “What happened here?”

“Ah, right. The living room.” Cas finally straightens himself out, and gives Dean what he’s sure is meant to be a warm smile. It comes off a bit too thin to be successful. “I had a fit of rage. Personal dilemma. Bad… grade, or something.” He makes a vague, offhanded gesture. “You know me, always pitching a fit when I don’t get my way. Unfortunate that the Hunter had to see it, hm?”

No. _Wrong_. And to make matters worse, there’s that name again—Hunter. Cas _kissed him_ this morning, he knows Dean too well not to recognize him. The entire lower half of his face is exposed, for god’s sake, and he’s not making any effort to disguise his voice. There’s no excuse. If this was actually Cas…

But it’s not.

Dean slides back a step, subtly moving into a more fight-ready position as he puts a bit more space between himself and Cas—or rather, the thing that _looks like_ Cas.

The effect is instantaneous; Cas’ face, previously stoic, breaks into an uncomfortably wide grin. “Ooh,” he coos, “was that too far? Whoops. Sorry to burst your bubble, kid. Castiel _is_ a stick in the mud, but I would guess that you’re probably a bit more enchanted by his antics than I am.”

“Shut up,” Dean growls. Cas’ voice, Cas’ face—no. He’s not doing this. He’s not playing this game, and he’s definitely not rising to the bait that’s being dangled in front of him. “Who are you? Where’s Cas?”

Not-Cas’ expression twists again, this time into a sickening smile that’s dripping with false sympathy. His eyes roll back until only white is visible. “You’ll see soon enough. Brother dearest will be so happy you’re joining us.”

Dean flinches back, fear overruling logic at the sight of Cas’ eyes turned white. He only distantly hears the words that were said, thanks to the blood rushing in his ears, but he’s nowhere near being able to process them. And that split second of hesitation, that one show of weakness—that’s all the mistake Dean needs to make.

Cas raises his arm to point at Dean, his index finger extended and his thumb held straight up, then flicks his hand back like he’s firing a gun.

And Dean’s world turns black.

 

 

 

 

He’s slow to come back to awareness, after that. When he does, there’s an ache between his temples and a coppery taste in his mouth, and he has to blink more than a few times for his vision to resolve into more than just blurs of light and shadow. As he comes to, more details of his surroundings trickle in. They’re meaningless observations at first, disconnected and fragmented, but once he has them all in front of him, they’re easy enough to string together.

His hands are bound behind his back.

There’s a light rain falling across his face, soaking through his hair and running down his neck through the gap at the collar of his suit.

Aside from the sound of the rain falling against the trees, everything is quiet. Somewhere above him, a single crow caws.

He’s in the middle of nowhere, captured and restrained. He can feel that he’s still in his suit, but his helmet is missing. Probably taken from him after… after…

What had happened?

He closes his eyes against his still-blurred surroundings while he struggles to think back. He remembers seeing the little girl. He remembers rushing back to the apartment and finding it wrecked. And then—

Cas.

Dean’s eyes fly open.

He’s in the woods. There are pine trees all around, and a small, dirt-filled clearing that Dean is situated on the edge of. He tries to pull forward, testing the boundaries of his constraints, but he’s tied too tightly to the tree at his back to move far. His suit’s wings are collapsed into his spine, though, so maybe if he turns just right and manages to release them…

He starts to work his shoulders against the rope that is binding him, and takes a furtive glance around at his surroundings. The Devil has to be nearby, because there’s no chance in hell that he kidnapped Dean, tied him up in the woods, and then _left_.

Almost immediately after he starts to look around for the Devil, however, Dean goes completely still.

Cas is tied to the tree across from him.

Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_.

Dean pulls harder at his ropes on instinct, now motivated by a different kind of desperation. Self-preservation is one thing, but this isn’t about just him, anymore.

Cas is sitting completely still, his eyes closed and his face slack. So Dean woke up first, then—not that he’s in any way sure whether that’s a good or bad thing. He makes one more quick look around for the Devil—who is still suspiciously absent—then hisses as loud as he dares, “Cas! Hey! I need you to wake up, buddy.”

Cas immediately blinks his eyes open. He stares at Dean, first looking dazed, then outright confused. “Dean?” He glances around, then abruptly goes rigid. Dean can see the exact instant when he realizes, at least loosely, what kind of situation they’re in. “Dean. What happened.”

Dean winces, automatically cowed by the intensity in Cas’ voice. How is he supposed to even _begin_ to explain this? And if the Devil made Dean see him as Cas… what happened when Cas got grabbed?

He forces himself to take a deep breath. “Cas,” he begins, “I don’t know what happened after I left the apartment, but I swear, I—”

“What are you wearing?”

“Um—” _Shit_. Dean’s legs are stretched out in front of him in the dirt, so he makes an effort to pull them up against his body, as if making himself smaller will make his very not-normal, very noticeable, and very _distinct_ outfit less obvious. Cas’ eyes latch onto the movement, however, proving that it has the opposite effect.

 _God damnit_. Of fucking _course_ he had to be in his suit when the Devil made his move. There’s no way to explain away why he’s wearing a mylar supersuit without a full confession.

And despite how unavoidable that seems to be right now, Dean would really rather not.

So he tries to dodge, “It doesn’t matter. Listen, just, whatever happens from here on out—”

“No,” Cas immediately interrupts yet again, “I think it does matter. I know bullet-resistant clothes when I see them, and I can _see_ how advanced that suit is. That isn’t something you just _wear_ , Dean, so tell me what it is, _now_.”

Cas grows more intense with every word he speaks, leaving him practically growling by the end. He looks pissed, and also like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. The air in the clearing is appropriately dense for the mood. It’s heavy. Charged.

Dean’s heart pounds in his chest.

He croaks out, “It’s a uniform.”

“A uniform,” Cas repeats. He takes one slow, deep breath, visibly reining himself in, then another. And then, “Dean, are you the—”

“Oh good, you’re awake!”

Dean jerks in surprise, and mentally scrambles to switch tracks. They were alone, and then between one blink and the next, they weren’t; the Devil stands in the center of the clearing, grinning smugly. “Thanks for joining me, gentlemen. I was starting to worry I’d hit you a little too hard. And wouldn’t _that_ have been disappointing.”

He’s still in his white suit (pretentious bastard), but his mask is absent. His face is plain, nondescript, and… familiar.

With a jolt, Dean remembers exactly where he’s seen it before.

“Let us go,” Cas starts to demand, his expression rigid and attitude as stubborn as ever, but Dean is too caught up in his own realizations to pay more than a cursory amount of attention.

“You son of a bitch,” he spits. He’s fueled more by anger than logic, now, and can’t care about the trouble his choice in words might get him into. “You were there. Earlier. You were actually in my fucking apartment.”

Cas makes an odd sound. “Wait, you were _where_ —”

He goes ignored.

The Devil —no, _Lucifer_ , Dean knows his name now, and he isn’t going to Voldemort him—smiles wider. “I can’t say I meant for you to catch me doing my reconnaissance, but I liked the way it worked out enough that I can’t complain. You scare easily, dontcha? One look at the big bad wolf, and suddenly you’re scared your little _boyfriend_ is going to get hurt.”

Dean clenches his jaw, but otherwise acts like the taunting isn’t affecting him. Cas is staring at him, now, he can feel it under his skin, but he doesn’t dare look back. He doesn’t have the nerve, and is too aware of Lucifer to take his eyes off of him, besides.

Lucifer seems to like something in Dean’s lack of reaction, though, because there’s a wicked glint in his eye when he pushes his taunts just a little bit further.

“Of course,” he says, too sweetly, “you were _really_ underestimating how meaningless you are. And playing superhero? You’re even worse at it than the Angel, with your cheap suit and recycled persona. _The Hunter_. I mean, come on, _saving people_? If you’re going to put yourself on the top of the pyramid, learn to have a little _fun_ with it. It makes things much more interesting, I promise.”

“Murdering people isn’t interesting.”

Lucifer shrugs. “Interesting enough for me. And besides, those people? They sold me out. They deserved it. Sort of like you do.”

“Lucifer,” Cas says, and that’s when Dean’s attention finally snaps toward him. His chest is heaving while he glares at Lucifer, something dangerous in his eyes. “Leave him out of this.”

Dean blinks rapidly. Cas knows the Devil’s name. Why does Cas know the Devil’s name? “You know him?”

Now it’s Cas’ turn to ignore Dean, apparently, because he doesn’t acknowledge him. Dean supposes he’s earned that, though.

Even if he hates it, because what the _fuck_.

“He really didn’t tell you, huh? He must be drowning in lies at this point.” Lucifer tuts and directs a disappointed look in Cas’ direction. “And here I was thinking you were all about honesty and moral high ground. Isn’t that supposed to be what separates you from me, brother?”

There’s so much that Lucifer is saying, so many hints at things Dean can’t even begin to understand, that he nearly misses the most pivotal part of it, snuck in at the end.

But he catches it. There’s no way not to.

 _Brother_?

He’s half convinced he must have misheard or misunderstood, but then Cas growls, “Shut up,” and that seals the deal. There’s no denial, no objection, no confusion. Just anger and familiarity.

Dean feels faint.

Lucifer laughs. “What are you going to do, _make me_? You’re forgetting that I have the upper hand, here, Castiel. I have you and your little friend, right where I want you. Although…” He makes a show of tapping his finger to his chin. “Come to think of it, maybe I only need you. Maybe I should give us the opportunity to talk privately. And give you some, ah… _motivation_ to cooperate.”

“No!” Cas shouts, jerking against his restraints. “If you so much as lay a _finger_ on him, Lucifer, I will kill you, so help me god—”

They’re brothers. _Brothers_. He was going to ask Cas if he had heard of Lucifer, sure, but he was expecting at best to hear some urban legends, not family stories. How is it even possible? What are the odds? Cas, _his_ Cas, resident grouch and natural genius, the biggest partier on campus. He doesn’t talk about his family, sure, but Dean never would have guessed that _this_ is the reason why.

If Cas is Lucifer’s brother, then he’s the Devil’s brother.

And despite how clearly the dots are labelled from there on out, Dean can’t make himself draw the line between them.

Lucifer starts to saunter toward Dean, prompting Cas to fight even harder against his ties. (Coated rope, unlike what Dean is bound in, why the hell is it coated?)

“Dean!”

Lucifer snaps his fingers, suddenly looking delighted. “Dean, that’s right! Gosh, I could _not_ remember your name when we were chatting earlier. That’s what my Castiel charade was missing. But, oh well— _I_ wasn’t going to kiss you, so it was bound to fall apart eventually, anyway. And as long as I still get to kill you… It all works out the same.”

Dean pulls against his ropes again, but there’s nowhere to go, no way to escape. He’s completely trapped, so whatever it is Lucifer plans to do when he raises his finger gun again (And isn’t that a gesture Dean is getting sick of), there’s no avoiding it.

Cas is struggling even harder than Dean is, his every movement jerky in his panic. And even though Lucifer is still advancing on him, Dean can’t look away. Because if this is the end, if this is where he dies—

God, there’s so much he wishes he could say to Cas.

For a fraction of a second, Cas meets his eyes. He looks just as torn-apart and scared as Dean feels.

“It’s been a pleasure, Dean,” Lucifer says, a final one-liner that sends far more fear down his spine than it rightly should.

“No!”

Dean only has a fraction of a second of warning before the world splits apart. The air around them turns oppressive and heavy, and all of the hair on Dean’s body stands on end. He sucks in a final, desperate breath, but despite the danger he can feel in the air, he still can’t bring himself to look away from Cas.

Cas, enraged where he is bound to his tree. His eyes shine with an ethereal light, and his mouth is twisted in a way Dean has never seen. The amount of rage he is directing at his brother is hardly human. It’s terrifying.

And breathtakingly beautiful.

It’s not Cas. Not anymore.

It’s _the Angel_.

In an instant, everything Dean thought that he knew changes.

A bolt of lightning races down from the sky, cutting through the tree at Cas’ back and shooting directly into Cas himself. The wood gives a deafening crack, and the smells of fire and ozone fill the clearing. When the light from the bolt has passed and Dean can see again, there’s a bright ribbon of orange tracing down the length of the tree, still smoldering from the heat of the lightning which put it there.

At the base of the tree, the ropes have fallen away from Cas’ body, the extra coating around them be damned. His eyes have become even brighter than they had been, charged by a current that now visibly washes across his skin. He’s almost too bright to look at, radiating with his own light—a light that casts the incorporeal wings behind his back into sharp relief, creating shadows against the lightning-struck tree and the ground beneath his feet. He stays lit up until well after he has gotten up to his feet, but even when the light dims, it doesn’t go away entirely. It flows down into Cas’ hands and pools in his palms, gathering to be put to use.

Lucifer staggers back a step and points a finger in warning. “Castiel, don’t do this. You know you can’t beat me. I was merciful last time we fought, I let you live! Do you really want to test your luck and see if it turns out the same way this time?”

“ _Merciful_ ,” Cas spits. “You killed innocent people. You tried to kill _me_ , despite your lies about mercy. And now.” He takes a threatening step forward, prompting Lucifer to twitch backwards. “Now you try to kill _him_? The man I love? If you think you are going to get away with even so much as threatening him, you are sorely mistaken.”

Dean stares up at Cas, his jaw gone slack as that one, choice word Cas used rings back through his ears. Cas loves him?

 _Cas loves him_.

“Cas,” Dean starts to say, because he needs to say _something_ , but he doesn’t say it quickly enough and isn’t heard.

At the exact same moment, Lucifer says, “Little brother, this isn’t something you want to do.”

To which Cas snarls, “Yes it is.”

Then the energy pooled in his hands releases, redirecting out of Cas’ palms in the same form in which it entered him. The twin bolts of lightning hit Lucifer square in the chest and send him flying back through their air, tumbling until he crashes into the dirt with a heavy _thud_. He scrambles to get back to his feet, but he’s uncoordinated about it, and clearly favors his left leg over his right. There’s a burst of a scar erupting around one of his eyes, thin, webbed lines twisting out and splitting from one another in the shape of the lightning Cas struck him with. It distorts the entire upper quarter of his face, and though it serves to make him look more naturally menacing, it also makes him look like what he truly is.

A madman, splintering apart, on the brink of collapse.

Once he’s on his feet, Lucifer makes a show of catching his breath. “That was good, little brother,” he says with a wide, false smile. He points at Cas again and waves his finger. “That was good, I have to give you that. You made a good attempt. But I think you might need a little bit more than flashing lights to take _me_ down.”

Then Lucifer extends his hand in Dean’s direction, instead. He doesn’t bother with the theatrics of the finger gun this time, but the threat is still just as real.

“Don’t you _dare_ —” Cas starts to snarl, but Lucifer flicks his wrist anyway.

Dean’s world erupts into pain. He shouts at the same time that Cas does, though while Dean curls in on himself, Cas lashes out, a shockwave of energy blasting out from him and knocking Lucifer back off of his feet. Dean only distantly sees it happen; the fire that’s burning its way through his nervous system serves as a pretty thorough distraction. He can’t pinpoint the source of the pain that he’s feeling, but some irrational part of his mind is insisting that it’s present anyway. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, and tries to corral the sensation.

Objectively, he knows how Lucifer’s powers work. He knows it’s in his head. He knows his skin isn’t _actually_ burning away, no matter how much it may feel like it is.

But fuck, does it hurt.

And then, after some amount of time that Dean can’t even begin to hope to be able to measure, it stops. He gasps as his vision clears, the fire in his veins vanishing just as quickly as it arrived.

When he opens his eyes, all he can see is Cas. From what he can tell, Cas is cradling him in his lap, and his face is held between Cas’ palms. He’s not tied to his tree anymore, then. Cas’ eyes are closed, though, and there’s a crease of concentration between his brows.

Dean blinks. How much did he miss. “Cas?”

Cas’ eyes fly open. “Dean. Oh thank _god_.” His shoulders bow as he collapses down toward Dean, holding him tighter while relief washes over him. It’s still raining, and Cas’ hair is soaked through; water drips from his wild strands to land on Dean’s face. “I didn’t know what he had done, I was so worried that—” His voice cracks, and he falls silent.

Dean understands well enough, though. He closes his fist in the front of Cas’ shirt, holding him as well as he can in return. It’s the best he can hope to do while he still feels as disconnected from reality as he does.

After only a few seconds of basking in their mutual nearness, however, reality sets back in. As nice as it is to be held by Cas—and to also not feel like he’s _dying_ —they can’t just sit here like this. Not while Lucifer is most definitely missing from the scene.

Dean pulls heavily on Cas as he struggles to sit up, prompting Cas to shift and wrap an arm around his waist to support him. Dean is grateful for the help; whatever Lucifer did to him has left him shaky, and his muscles aren’t quite ready to support him.

Just when he needs to be able to control himself most, too. Fucking figures.

“Where the hell did he go?”

Cas makes a growling sound under his breath. “I don’t know, Dean, he distracted me, in case you didn’t notice. I wasn’t going to chase him while you were seizing in the dirt.”

Dean tries to ignore the way his heart swells at the implication behind that, but fails completely. So maybe Cas prioritized his personal safety over the capture of a dangerous superhuman—that’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything. Just normal friend stuff, right?

Except Cas definitely did refer to him as the man he loves.

So there’s that.

“Well,” Dean says, staggering up to his feet, “we better find him. If he’s not waiting around to kill us, he’ll probably kill everyone in this damn city just to make a point.” He reaches down and offers Cas a hand up.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Cas agrees, his expression going dark for a brief moment. He accepts Dean’s hand, though, wrapping their fingers together before swinging up to his feet with an unbelievable amount of grace.

It leaves Dean’s mouth more than a little bit dry. And it also leaves them standing incredibly close to one another—close enough that Dean’s eyes drop toward Cas’ mouth, and for a second, he can’t come up with a single reason why he shouldn’t lean in and kiss him.

The impulse only lasts for a second, though, and instead of kissing Cas, Dean smacks him on the shoulder. “I hope you know that I’m going to be _really_ pissed off at you after this is over. _The Angel_ , are you kidding me? What the fuck, Cas?”

Cas presses his lips into a tight line and ducks his head, but he also squeezes Dean’s hand, where they’re still connected. “I’m sorry I never told you. I didn’t know _how_ to tell you, and I didn’t want to inadvertently put you in any sort of danger by letting you in on such a tremendous secret, anyway.”

Six months ago, that probably isn’t an excuse Dean would have accepted, under any circumstances. It sounds like such stereotypical bullshit, pulled straight out of every cheap superhero movie ever written, but now that Dean has lived it…

It’s not nearly as easy as it looks from the outside.

Dean sighs and squeezes Cas’ hand in return. “Yeah. Okay. I get it.” Cas glances up at Dean through his lashes. He doesn’t look convinced, which prompts Dean to give him a shy smile and add, “I didn’t exactly tell you that I’m the Hunter. I wouldn’t say that we’re _even_ , but…”

Cas’ head snaps back up at that, like he’s just now remembering that Dean is, in fact, the Hunter. He says, tone leaving no room for argument, “That is also something we will be discussing, when we have the time for it. In great length. Because you are a fool, Dean Winchester, and I cannot _believe_ that you would actively _chase_ danger like this. I know you are foolhardy, but you’ve taken it to an entirely new level.”

Dean can’t help but laugh at that. Who would have guessed that being chewed out would make him feel so damn giddy? But really, being harassed for putting himself in danger may as well be best case scenario right now. Neither of them are dead, they’re going to go after Lucifer, Cas doesn’t hate him outright for being the Hunter, and Cas himself—

To be honest, the fact that Cas is the Angel is probably something that Dean will have to take some time to process. He’s spent so long with the two carefully kept in different boxes, his personal life and his closet obsession. Merging them isn’t going to be easy, by any means, but, well. He’ll get there eventually.

Charlie’s going to lose her mind when she finds out.

For now, though, they really do need to go after Lucifer. They’ve already delayed long enough, and the Devil has proven himself to be slippery; by now, he could be just about anywhere. And since Lucifer knows both Cas and Dean, he’ll also know how to find other people who are important to them.

He could destroy the entire city, yes. Dean recognizes that. But he can also hit them where it will hurt most before that point, as he has proven he’s more than willing to do, and maybe it’s selfish, but that scares Dean more than anything else.

They can stop him before he destroys the city. Dean knows they can. Stopping him before he can kill a small handful of targets, though?

That’s a whole other matter entirely.

Dean sighs and gripes, unable to help himself, “You know, if nothing else, you could have told me that your brother is a psychopath.”

“I _did_ tell you that he was just released from prison.”

“No, that’s—” Dean squints at him. “Lucifer is Nick? The one you went and saw?”

Cas wrinkles his nose. “Unfortunately. Our parents may have been unorthodox, but they didn’t actually name him Lucifer. He chose that moniker himself.”

“Oh. Well.” That makes sense, Dean supposes. He can also see how very _Cas_ it is for him to have told Dean partial truths instead of the whole truth; he gave Dean a vague idea of what was going on without telling him anything at all. Figures.

But now isn’t the time to pick it all apart.

“Okay. We’ll figure this all out later, yeah? After Lucifer.” Because after Lucifer, they _will_ talk. Dean has questions he needs answers to, and between the two of them, god knows there’s enough that needs to be said. They’ve hid things from each other. They’ve lied. And every bit of that is going to have to be sorted out and dealt with.

He finally withdraws from Cas, their palms sliding apart as he goes. He does a quick check of the clearing, and by some miracle, he finds his helmet behind the tree he had been tied up against. (The ropes that are abandoned around said tree look like they were burned apart—Cas’ doing, no doubt.) He nearly pulls the helmet on, but he hesitates at the last second. He stares down at it, runs his thumb along the visor that covers his eyes, then lobs it toward Cas.

Cas catches it on instinct, but he blinks in confusion. “Dean? Shouldn’t you wear this?”

Dean shakes his head. “You have more to lose than I do, if someone recognizes you. I’m just some guy who built a dumb, fancy suit, but you? People will tear you apart if they can get their hands on the guy who can do everything _you_ can do. And I’m not going to let that happen.”

Cas stares at Dean like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. There’s shock in his eyes, but there’s also something warm and sappy; Dean ducks his head, feeling shy in the face of that emotion.

“Alright, come on, it’s not that big of a—”

Cas moves faster than would be possible for a normal human being, cups a hand to Dean’s jaw to lift his face back up, then cuts him off with a firm press of lips. Even Dean’s sound of surprise is muffled by the kiss, though he supposes that’s a good thing, because that surprise doesn’t last long, anyway. And with Cas kissing him again anyway, kissing him when Dean knows he can actually kiss back? There’s no time for surprise.

Dean takes Cas’ face in both of his hands and kisses him back with everything he has. It’s all that he wanted to do the first time. It’s all that he’s needed for _so long_.

And it feels so damn right. Why did he resist this a few minutes ago?

“Dean,” Cas gasps out against Dean’s mouth, although he doesn’t actually try to end the kiss to speak more clearly. “Dean, we—Lucifer. We have to—Can’t let him get away.”

“I know, _I know_.” Dean lets himself enjoy their rushed kissing for a few more seconds, then forces himself to pull back. His every breath still mingles with Cas’ and their noses brush together, but, well. At least they’re far enough apart to not be kissing. He doesn’t want to give up any more than he already has just yet; sue him. Dean brushes his thumb across Cas’ cheek. “We’ll get him. We’ll go. Put the damn helmet on, okay?”

Cas wets his lips. “If we go into the city, people will see who _you_ are. This could ruin your life.”

Dean gives him a dry smile. “Better mine than yours.”

The sentiment earns Dean one, final kiss, and then Cas steps back from him completely. He pulls on the helmet and secures the strap beneath his chin, then nods to show he’s ready. It doesn’t match his rain-damp street clothes, which makes him look utterly adorable, and also so much more _Cas_ than he ever is while in his own suit.

Dean grins at him. “Let’s do this, Angel.”

Dean releases his wings and locks his arms into them in a fluid, practiced movement, then takes a few running steps before taking off. Cas follows close on his heels, light and energy seemingly bending around him as the shadowy wings at his back carry him through the air. If he weren’t so experienced in picking out the nuances of the Angel’s appearance, Dean probably wouldn’t notice that they’re there at all, even with the way they bend the rainfall around them. As it is, though, getting such an up-close look at the way Cas flies makes Dean absurdly excited to kick Lucifer’s ass and go home.

Once they’re in the air, he can see that Lucifer had them in the back part of a park that isn’t too far from the University District. The revelation is both good and bad—it means it would have been easy for Lucifer to escape into the nearby city, but it’s also easy for Dean and Cas to follow.

As the begin to fly over the city, Dean slows himself down to be beside Cas. The static charge that hangs around him makes it difficult to be too close to him, and Dean doesn’t dare risk shorting out his suit’s power system while they’re up so high, but he does what he can. He shakes his head to clear the gathering rain from his face—flying in this sort of weather without his visor sucks—and shouts across the distance between them, “Where do you think he’ll go?”

Before Cas can answer, there’s a crack of thunder overhead. Dean looks up automatically, like the sky itself might have an explanation to offer him, but he knows what caused it, anyway.

Cas can draw lightning through his fingertips. Thunder has never been part of the Angel’s style.

And aside from the Angel’s intervention, Seattle very rarely sees thunderstorms. The climate encourages rain, not thunder and lightning.

“There.” Cas points south, and when Dean follows his finger, he sees that the sky over downtown has darkened nearly to the point of being black. It looks too real to be one of Lucifer’s hallucinations, but then, Dean can’t claim to know everything the man is capable of. Not that it matters whether it’s real or not, though, so long as they know where he is.

Cas shoots toward downtown, and this time it’s Dean’s turn to follow. As they go, Cas shouts at Dean across the wind, “He’s using too much energy. Teleporting himself, changing the weather on this scale—he can’t sustain it.”

Dean wobbles in the air for a second, surprise causing him to unbalance. Teleporting might make sense, if Dean thinks back to the Devil’s debut against the Angel, but _actually_ changing the weather? On top of what Dean has already determined he can do?

He calls back, “What kind of powers does he have? What can’t he do?”

Cas slows down as they begin to fly over downtown, his head on a constant swivel as he begins to search for any more signs of where Lucifer may be. He makes a point of staying close to Dean, but it still takes him a few moments too long to respond. And when he does, his answer is less than reassuring.

“At this rate, I don’t know.”

And no matter what the hell that means, Dean doesn’t like it.

Still, he nods in understanding. So Lucifer is even more unpredictable than expected—not a great development, but not one they can’t handle. If he’s using too much power, though, _that_ is something they can exploit. They’ll have to figure out how to best take advantage of it once they get eyes on him.

Once it comes down to it, however, Dean trusts Cas to be able to come up with a plan to defeat his brother. And Dean is going to be at his side to support him through that, because as far as he is concerned, his role is just that.

Support.

It’s exactly what he created the Hunter to do.

There’s a peal of thunder directly overhead, then a flash of lightning that follows. It doesn’t come from Cas, but it lights up the wings on his back anyway, casting them into sharp relief against the storm-ridden sky. The sight of it threatens to distract Dean, but not so much that he misses the next most important detail that the lightning reveals.

The strike hits directly on top of Centurylink Field. And, even across the distance, Dean can see the smudge of a figure that is momentarily illuminated in the center of the flash. The growing storm swirls down around him, enveloping him in a way that’s eerily similar to and yet nothing like the energy that clings to the Angel. This is much darker, and far more sinister.

Dean takes a wide turn as he changes direction, giving Cas plenty of opportunity to see where he’s going, then shoots off toward the stadiums.

As they get nearer to Lucifer, the air turns frigid. Frost begins to form along Dean’s arms and wings, and the rain that pelts against his face is nearer to hail than actual rain. It makes it even harder for him to see where he’s going than it already was.

He doesn’t regret giving it to Cas, because his reasoning for doing so still stands, but damn, does he miss his visor.

When they reach the roof, Dean runs a few steps to get rid of his momentum, while Cas simply drops to one knee and lets the roof absorb his impact. Dean’s breath fogs in front of his face thanks to the cold, but Cas, for his part, doesn’t seem to be affected by the temperature. Lucky bastard.

Lucifer is balanced on the edge of the stadium’s open roof, his arms spread and his face tilted back toward the sky. Below him, people are screaming; Dean doesn’t know what additional horrors they’re being made to see, but it’s sure not to be anything good.

A stadium full of captive people. March means soccer season, which at least should mean that the crowd inside is smaller than it would be if it were football season, but there could still be more than forty thousand fans in the seats down below.

It would be terrifyingly easy for that to turn into forty thousand casualties, if Lucifer continues to go unchecked.

“Lucifer!”

Cas’ voice is nearly swallowed up by the wind that whips around them, but Lucifer turns anyway. His eyes glow red, which makes the scars from Cas’ lightning look even more menacing, and his suit is tattered and torn.

“Brother,” Lucifer calls back, grinning into the storm. “I wondered when you would catch up. Ready to sacrifice yourself one last time for your precious city, are you?”

“Hey!” Dean shoots a dart from the top of his wrist, and though it misses Lucifer, it does its job and catches his attention. The Devil scowls at him. Dean lifts his chin. “No one’s getting sacrificed, and _you_ aren’t going to hurt anyone. This ends here. Right now.”

Lucifer just laughs. “And who’s going to stop me? You? Wannabe Boy Wonder, with his scrap metal suit? Please.”

“We’re _both_ stopping you,” Cas corrects. He storms forward, his hands clenching into fists while the energy around him thickens. Electricity ripples across his skin, flowing out from beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt in a way that makes him look ethereal.

He looks destructive. Like a true force to be reckoned with.

Unlike when they were in the clearing, however, Lucifer doesn’t so much as hesitate in the wake of the approaching danger. He grins at his brother, and then with a snap of his fingers, he vanishes.

Cas immediately freezes in place, the tense set of his shoulders showing that he’s scanning for Lucifer’s new location. While he does, Dean hedges forward to the edge of the stadium’s curved roof and peers inside.

The crowd is anxious, shoving at each other and shouting in their growing panic. Half of the seats half been emptied, but the aisles are jammed full of people, desperate for an escape but with nowhere to go. Blocked exits, Dean surmises. Lucifer wants to keep them trapped here, which means he’s surely lurking somewhere nearby, even if he’s disappeared from sight.

“Cas,” Dean shouts, “we have to get these people out of here. Lucifer could blow the whole stadium.”

Cas gives him a hard look, his lips pressing thin, but before he can voice his agreement, Lucifer appears behind him. Dean starts to try to warn him, but Lucifer is faster, his fist connecting with his brother’s jaw and sending him stumbling.

Cas recovers quickly, though. He grits his teeth and whirls, the almost-wings at his back flaring wide against the continuing hail. He throws a punch of his own at Lucifer, and though it’s dodged, his kick to his brother’s knee which immediately follows connects as planned. Lucifer shouts as his leg buckles beneath him, but even that doesn’t stop his fight. He lunges at Cas once again, undeterred by how evenly matched they seem to be.

And though he could get himself involved in the fist fight, Dean knows there’s something else he needs to do first.

He calls, “Cas! Keep him distracted!” then turns and dives off of the roof, into the stadium beneath. He lands as smoothly as he can in the middle of the soccer pitch, and turns every which way as he tries to determine where to go first. The field itself has been cleared—Sam plays soccer, so Dean knows from experience that the game would have been stopped as soon as there was any sign of lightning—but the players and field crews are either huddled under sport shelters on the sidelines, or crowding into the tunnels in the corners.

Dean has only been into this particular stadium once, for UW night at a soccer game just like this one, and from that experience, he recalls there being quite a bit of interior space. The concession stands, the long ramps leading up to the upper level, the lower section with the team store—yet, there’s too many people still crammed into the open spaces for those sheltered areas to be available.

So either Lucifer locked down the stadium that close to the seats, or the members of the crowd are being made to _think_ that he did.

Dean spins and takes off at a dead sprint across the rain-soaked turf. If Lucifer is using too much power, as Cas said—and he must be, because it can’t be easy to put a specific image in forty thousand heads at once—chances are, he won’t be able to maintain it for long. With the changes to the weather, and Cas actively fighting against him…

Dean just needs to figure out pushing through the gaps.

He routes himself past the people left on the field first, purely because he knows they’ll be the first ones in danger if Cas and Lucifer’s fight falls off of the roof. Evacuate the field, then the stands. He yells for the people huddled under the sports shelter to follow him, but none of them move. Players, coaching staff, the other members of the crew who are mixed in among them—they all just stare at Dean, fearful, their eyes full of distrust.

Frustrated, Dean points up toward the roof, where the storm is still centered and lightning strikes intermittently. “The minute that fight makes it down to this field, you’re all screwed. Do you want to get out of here or not?”

One of the players, his jersey sopping wet, blinks at him. “You’re the Hunter.”

Dean is momentarily thrown by the recognition (how did he forget that people _know him_? Even professional athletes, as it seems), but he seizes on it and nods. “Yeah, I am. And I’m trying to save your asses before the Devil roasts this place and everyone in it. The Angel can only stall him for so long.”

Someone further back in the huddle says, “The Angel? Didn’t the Devil kill him?”

At that moment, a bolt of lightning misses the roof and hits the field, charring the sideline only a few yards away from where Dean stands. He feels the heat of it even through his suit.

He’s in way over his head, here.

Still, he gathers up all of the courage he can and jabs a finger toward the mark that has been left behind. “If we don’t get out of here, you’re gonna be next. So follow me.”

This time, everyone listens to him without complaint.

Dean urges everyone who’s left on the field down into the closest tunnel where, at the end, a set of iron bars stops anyone from going any farther. They don’t match the concrete that makes up the rest of the corridor. Lucifer’s doing, then.

He pushes to the front of the crowd of panicked people, those he led in from the field plus a small hoard that was already waiting at the bars. Anyone who knows who he is lets him by without question, and anyone else is quickly filled in. When he reaches the bars, Dean grabs them with both hands and pulls, testing their give.

Even though he knows they can’t be real, his mind is so convinced of them that they _feel_ real. He could probably push through them if he tried hard enough, or if he could trick himself into ignoring Lucifer’s influence…

Dean closes his eyes and tries to focus, shutting out the voices of all of the concerned civilians around him.

“Where the hell are we supposed to go?”

“How are we getting out of here?”

“You’re the Hunter, shouldn’t you be able to just kick this down or something?”

He can’t listen to them right now. If Lucifer is projecting into their heads, he has to be _ignored_. His brain is telling him that the bars are there because he can see them. Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed, if he pretends the bars aren’t there—

Dean takes a deep breath, forces himself to picture an empty corridor in his mind’s eye, and steps forward.

And since the bars don’t actually exist, they don’t stop him. He knows he’s made it past the false barrier when the civilians behind him begin to shout again, startled by his apparent walk through a solid wall. From there, the challenge becomes getting them to calm down and listen to him enough to understand his coaching on how to get through themselves. A few people make it through immediately, but it takes time and patience that Dean doesn’t quite have to get the rest of them through.

Halfway through the ordeal, however, the bars flicker and disappear. Some of the civilians cheer, but the sight puts a pit in Dean’s stomach.

Because no matter what caused Lucifer’s power to fail, distraction or stretching himself too thin, Cas is at the center of it.

And if something happens to Cas, while Dean isn’t there to help—

“Hey!” He grabs the nearest employee, some guy in a suit with a name badge. “Make sure someone goes around to every exit in this place, help get people out of here. If the bars are still there, show them what I showed you, and if not, make sure they get _out_. Can you do that?”

Although he looks terrified, the guy is quick to nod. Dean claps him on the shoulder in thanks, then runs back down the tunnel, toward the field.

Outside, the storm has grown even worse. Rain and hail whip through the air, pelting against Dean’s skin and making him wince. He squints through the haze of it all and sees that, by some miracle, Cas and Lucifer are still battling it out up on the roof.

Just as Dean snaps his arms into his wings to fly up to meet them, however, the fight makes a dramatic shift.

They’re too far away for Dean to see them as more than smudged silhouettes against the clouds at their backs, but one figure stumbles too close to the edge of the roof, and the other kicks him in the chest. Whoever it is, they fall in a perfect arc down to the field below, then connect hard with the unforgiving ground beneath. The turf dents inward, and the water which had been pooling on it sprays up in every direction.

For an extended moment, Dean can’t breathe.

He’s seen the Angel go down like this before. He can’t do it again.

He takes off at a dead sprint across the field, his heart pounding in his chest. There’s rain in his eyes and running down his neck into his suit, his hair is plastered to his head, there are still people in the stands and no guarantee that they’re going to safely make it out, but fuck, he can’t _think_. He can’t care about any of it, not when it could be Cas who’s been turned into a crater yet again.

When he eventually reaches the damaged pit of turf, Dean slides to an unsteady halt. He stares down at the ground, and the body that is lying at his feet.

It’s Lucifer.

Dean blinks. Then, between one heartbeat and the next, Cas is standing beside him. He flexes his wings up and over them both, which Dean only notices because, even without being visible, they warp the rainfall enough to give Dean a much-needed reprieve. He slicks his hair back, temporarily getting it out of his face, then instinctively huddles a bit closer to Cas and the warmth which, even now, radiates off of him.

“Is he…”

Lucifer’s eyes are closed and his body is limp. His skin is sallow and pale, but red and flaky in sporadic places. The area around his eyes is especially red, and the scars Cas gave him are the most prominent they’ve been yet—but despite all of the signs, it doesn’t feel right. Dean may have missed the majority of the fight, but it still feels too _easy_.

And yet, the Devil certainly looks dead.

Dean hazards a glance at Cas, unwilling to voice the actual word. The guy may be a murderous lunatic, but he’s still Cas’ _brother_. Dean doesn’t want to undervalue that.

It’s hard to see Cas’ eyes through his borrowed visor, but Dean recognizes his trademark squint anyway, just by the way his mouth turns down.

(How in the _fuck_ did Dean never clue into the fact that Cas is the Angel? Just by the shape of his mouth alone? He’s such a goddamn _idiot_.)

“He’s never been as impervious to damage as I am,” Cas says slowly. “And after you left to help people evacuate, he…” He shakes his head, almost mournfully. “He pushed himself too far. He had essentially cannibalized his natural abilities, turned them into something they never should have been. It was rotting him from the inside out.”

Dean frowns. Cas’ explanation really brings up more questions than it answers, especially relating to the _abilities_ that are apparently typical to Cas’ family, but at the same time… He supposes it gives him enough of an idea of how things got to be where they are.

Lucifer was obviously a jealous, hateful type. He probably hated his brother for having any sort of skill set that he may have perceived as better than his own. He wanted to be the best there was, unstoppable, the top of the world. Dean has already seen that the man was willing to do anything it took to get what he wanted.

And beyond that, just by looking at him, he really does look like he was rotting from the inside out.

Dean almost feels bad for the son of a bitch.

The key word there, of course, being _almost_.

Dean sighs and, after only a split second of self-doubt, slips his hand into Cas’.

He feels Cas stiffen beside him. Then, just when Dean is about to panic and take it back, Cas’ fingers close around his own. The touch is grounding and firm, and even though he hates the fact that his glove keeps him from feeling Cas’ palm against his own, Dean absolutely loves how easy it is.

He squeezes Cas’ hand. “We should make sure everyone made it out of the stadium alright. There’s bound to be police here soon, if there aren’t already, so we can let them figure out what to do with Lucifer. We shouldn’t stick around too much longer.”

“No,” Cas agrees with a heavy sigh of his own, “we shouldn’t. I doubt we would be held accountable, but the police will have too many questions. It’s best we go.” He keeps his hand in Dean’s, but his not-wings return to their natural position at his back, which lets the rain reach them once again.

They’re both soaked through, Cas even more so due to his street clothes, but Dean doesn’t mind it so much anymore. It’s normal rain now, at least, completely average to what Seattle might typically be experiencing at this time of year. The full, raging storm passed along with Lucifer.

As they turn and walk away, Dean takes a second to take stock of the rest of the stadium. There are a few people lurking in the stands, most of them very clearly filming the events on the field with their phones, but for the most part, everyone seems to have made it out. And although the rain is loud against the turf and all of the concrete that surrounds it, it’s not so loud as to drown out the police sirens that wail outside of the stadium’s perimeter.

Dean realizes with a pang of guilt that the Hunter and the Angel might just have to send the Seattle Police Department a fruit basket for this one.

Because even without any civilian casualties, it’s not pretty. And it’s definitely going to generate a lot of paperwork.

When Dean lets go of Cas’ hand, it’s only so that he can brace himself for flight, and even then, it’s a necessity that he regrets. Even after having kissed Cas, a couple of times now, holding his hand just feels so _nice_.

He glances up and catches Cas already staring at him, a wide, gummy smile on his face.

Good to know it’s mutual, then.

Dean grins back at him, and flexes the wings of his suit in preparation for their flight home. Just before he can start up his thrusters, however, there’s a scuffling sound behind them, and a crack of thunder overhead.

“Castiel!”

Dean whirls around. He’s hardly able to believe what he’s seeing, but—there’s Lucifer, on his feet once more, his face twisted into a murderous scowl. He’s ragged, and sways in place, but that doesn’t seem to be any deterrent to his rage.

In his peripheral vision, Dean sees Cas shift forward a step. He’s coiled tight, ready for the fight to continue if it needs to. “Lucifer… It’s over. You’ve lost. Give it up.”

“No!” Lucifer stamps his foot. It’s a dangerous thing to do, if the way his stance wobbles is any indication. Dean subtly flexes his wrist, ready to shoot one of his tranquilizing darts at him if he has to. “You are not doing this to me, Castiel, not again. You might be everyone’s favorite little hero, but today _I’m_ going to win. And I am _not_ going back to prison.”

Then, moving at an inhuman speed that Dean can barely track, Lucifer pulls a knife from somewhere in his suit, and lunges at his brother.

Dean doesn’t even have to think before he acts. It only takes a quick side step for him to be directly between Lucifer and Cas, so when Lucifer’s knife sinks into flesh, it isn’t at its intended target.

The thick padding of Dean’s suit stops the majority of the attack, but he still grunts at the impact, and distinctly feels the knife cut into his side. It goes deep—though, it would have done far worse damage to Cas’ unprotected skin, had it hit him instead. The pain of it burns, and between that and Cas’ horrified shout of, “Dean!” Dean is nearly distracted into losing his footing.

Almost, but not quite.

He grits his teeth against the pain, meets Lucifer’s surprised stare with a snarl, and says, “You’re gonna have to do better than that, pal.”

Then he shoves his hand against Lucifer’s chest and activates the taser feature built into the webbing of his gloves. Lucifer’s eyes grow impossibly wider, his surprise mingling with fear as he realizes what’s happening, and then he collapses back against the turf, convulsing with the aftershocks of the tase.

Somewhere far off in the stadium, someone begins to cheer. Dean tries to laugh, because it’s damn _absurd_ that he just tased a super villain on a football field and someone is cheering for it, but as soon as he starts, the wound in his side pulls. He sucks in a sharp breath and drops to one knee, black spots dotting his vision as the pain comes back to hit him.

Cas is there almost immediately, slotting himself in beneath one of Dean’s shoulders and taking on his weight as he guides him back to his feet. “Don’t you even _dare_ , Dean Winchester,” Cas growls into his ear. “Don’t think that you get to sacrifice yourself for me and then die. That is not how this is going to end.”

Dean clutches weakly at his cut, and answers Cas with a faint grin. “Who said anything about dying? I’m gonna be fine. I’ve been shot before, you know. This is just… a slight knick.”

His knees buckle, prompting Cas to sweep an arm beneath them and scoop Dean up against his chest. The movement is too quick, though, and it makes Dean’s head spin. The spots in his vision get worse, so he closes his eyes against them all together.

“I’m fine,” he reiterates. The words are slightly slurred, and get mumbled against Cas’ wet shirt. The darkness pulling at Dean’s mind grows, and it’s incredibly hard not to give into it. “I just… I just need to… take a second.”

He’s quickly losing consciousness, but before he sinks under, one final thought crosses his mind. He gathers up what energy he can to mumble, “Think it’s safe to say that _you_ owe _me_ one for this.”

He spent years feeling like he was in debt to the Angel for saving him. It’s oddly satisfying to have the dynamic reversed.

Dean feels a pair of lips press against his forehead. Accompanying the gesture, he swears he hears the words, “Alright. You can rest, my love. I’ve got you.”

And then the world stops existing.

 

 

 

 

The next thing Dean knows, he’s in a bed. It’s warm and comfortable, and though the mattress beneath him is soft, it’s not familiar. In fact, when he blinks his eyes open, nothing in the room is familiar.

He shoves himself upright, panic coursing through him, but he’s forced to stop when the pain in his side flares. His hand immediately goes to the wound—bandaged, now, and beneath a layer of pajama clothes—and he hisses through his teeth. It’s better than it was, he can already tell, but _fuck_ does it hurt. There’s a dull, yet persistent ache that radiates through his core, which makes it perfectly clear that the healing process isn’t going to be a fun one.

Once he’s come to that conclusion, he looks around again, checking his surroundings. It hadn’t looked familiar at first, but upon closer inspection, he knows it.

It’s Cas’ room.

Dean can’t help but stare. He lives here, for god’s sake, he knows what Cas’ room looks like, but it still feels so _foreign_. Cas’ room is his own, personal space, and Dean has always respected that. Being alone in the room, and viewing it from the vantage point of Cas’ bed to boot? Dean may as well be seeing it all for the first time.

There’s a framed photo of the two of them sitting on Cas’ nightstand. Dean is pretty sure it was taken on some Mario Night or another, but he can’t remember exactly which one. It’s a good picture, though.

He stares at it for longer than anything else in the room.

After a few minutes, the door swings open, and Cas steps in. He blinks in surprise when he meets Dean’s eyes, hesitating in the doorway. “Oh. Good morning, Dean. I wasn’t sure when you would wake up.”

Dean gives him a small, tight smile. “But I _did_ wake up,” he replies. He remembers everything that happened prior to his passing out with a surprising amount of clarity, and as such, he most definitely remembers Cas being afraid he was going to die.

His smile starts to come a bit easier.

“Come on, Cas, you knew you weren’t going to get rid of me _that_ easily, right?”

A dark look crosses Cas’ face, but the teasing eases him, and he finally crosses the room to sit on the foot of the bed. “Considering I have no intention to ‘get rid of you’, I would say that that’s a good thing. I feel like it would be more appropriate for me to say, _you_ are not getting rid of _me_ that easily.”

“Whatever you say, angel.”

The endearment slips off of Dean’s tongue without thought, but once it’s been spoken, he realizes that he likes it. A lot. Cas may be _the_ Angel, but since the day they met, he’s always been _Dean’s_ angel.

And since he’s ninety-eight percent sure he heard Cas use the L-word before he passed out, well. Dean thinks he’s allowed to be a sappy romantic, too.

Cas gives him the most lovestruck smile Dean has ever seen in his life, which Dean takes to mean that he’s made the right call.

But unfortunately, there’s more hanging in the air right now than just their budding romance. Dean sighs and pushes a hand through his hair, bracing himself for the line of questioning he knows he has no choice but to open. “So. Care to fill me in on what I missed?”

Cas’ smile fades away. “You actually didn’t miss much,” he begins. “I flew you back here fairly quickly. I only stayed at the stadium long enough to ensure Lucifer was actually staying down this time.”

Dean swallows. “Did I…”

“Kill him?” A ghost of a smile touches Cas’ lips. “No, you didn’t. But you did incapacitate him pretty thoroughly, at least for the time being. I called my oldest brother, Michael, and filled him in on what happened. He’s going to collect Lucifer, and make sure that he never has the chance to do anything like this ever again. He may have been able to break out of prison, but he will not do the same if he is in Michael’s custody.”

Dean thinks back to what little he knows about Cas’ oldest brother and frowns. “I thought you said that Michael left the family, or something like that? Why would he come back to deal with Lucifer _now_?”

“Because he owes me one. And because if there’s anyone who stands a chance at keeping Lucifer contained, it’s going to be Michael. As he very well knows.”

Right. That makes some sense, Dean supposes. He moves along to his next topic. “So. You didn’t tell me you’re the Angel because…?”

From the way Cas sighs, Dean can tell he knew this was coming. Still, he frowns, and looks genuinely apologetic when he answers, “I didn’t want to put you at risk by letting you be involved. And then once we became friends, then roommates… It didn’t feel like something I could exactly bring up in retrospect.”

It still feels like a somewhat bullshit answer, because with how close they are, it feels absurd to have kept something so huge from each other—but Dean ended up making the same exact choices, so he can’t fault Cas too much. He hates it, but he gets it.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a grin. “Do you actually go to parties, then?”

“ _God_ no,” Cas says on a rush of air. The confession looks like it lifts a tremendous weight off of his shoulders, which may very well be the funniest thing Dean has ever seen. Cas’ shoulders sag, and he drops his face into his hands. “Balthazar’s parties are always so _crowded_ , and there’s so much weed. And I don’t even like _beer_ , let alone hard alcohol. It’s so vile. I can’t understand how people drink for pleasure. Letting you think that that is the kind of person I am has been the single worst part of our friendship, bar none.”

“The friendship that only started because you saved me in that alley, you mean.”

Although he keeps his face hidden in his hands, Dean can see that Cas’ face burns red. Instead of upsetting him like it probably could—should?—the confirmation only serves to amuse Dean more. He huffs a laugh, the best he can do with his wound, and stretches out one of his feet beneath the covers of the bed to nudge Cas’ knee.

“Damn. I can’t believe I spent so long thinking the Angel was some fearless badass when he’s really just a socially awkward _dork_.”

Cas makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat, not unlike a whine. Dean laughs again, more fully this time, and it’s completely worth the sharp pain it sends through his side. He can’t help it, though—the entire situation is just so _funny_.

They were each superheroes without the other knowing. They both _loved each other_ without the other knowing. How does that just _happen_?

He’s riding high on the giddiness of it when he says, mouth working faster than his brain, “You’re so lucky I love you.”

Cas jolts at the words, and his head whips up so quickly that Dean’s own neck aches in sympathy. For a long moment, Cas merely stares at him, his eyes wide while the gears in his brain almost visibly struggle to turn.

And for that reaction alone, Dean can’t bring himself to regret his confession.

When Cas eventually gets over the shock of it, a smile blooms across his face, slow and sappy and utterly adoring. Instead of returning the sentiment, though, Cas shuffles further up the bed, closer to Dean, then says with complete sincerity, “You’re right. I’m truly the luckiest man alive.”

Despite the statement he just made, Dean has to disagree with that. Cas can’t possibly be luckier than Dean feels right now.

He slides a hand across the sheets and lays it over Cas’. In return, Cas turns his hand over to press his palm into Dean’s, and tangles their fingers together. They smile at each other, quietly reveling in the easy intimacy of it all.

After a few moments, Cas moves to sit beside Dean, sliding under the covers along with him. They press together from shoulder to ankle, and after a few traded kisses (because really, Dean can’t help himself, injury or no injury; what is he supposed to do now that he knows he _can_ kiss Cas, just _not_?), Dean lays his head down on Cas’ shoulder and lets his eyes slip closed. It’s an even better way to bask, and their hands stay tangled together the entire time.

Maybe Dean shouldn’t declare that this is the happiest he’s ever been, but it’s a damn near thing.

Then his phone starts to vibrate where it sits on Cas’ nightstand, shattering the peace.

At first, Dean is determined to ignore it. He’s glad when the call rings out, and makes an effort to relax further into Cas’ shoulder in the wake of it, but the universe isn’t so kind as to leave things there. His phone starts to ring again almost as soon as the first call ends.

He feels Cas’ hum more than he hears it. “Do you want to answer that?”

Dean sighs, but leans away from Cas and his comfortable warmth to snag his phone off of the table. “It’s Charlie,” he says with a frown. What could she want right now that’s so urgent? He answers the call and presses his phone against his ear. “Hello?”

“Dean, mark my words, I am going to _murder you_.”

Dean blinks. He’s not altogether surprised, but— “Um. Any specific reason why?”

Charlie lets out a laugh that borders on being hysterical. “Oh, you’ve got some _nerve_ , Winchester. You don’t sound like you’re dead or dying, like I was halfway convinced you would be, so turn on the news. You’re going to want to see this.”

A pit of dread starts to form in Dean’s stomach. He glances at Cas, who is already staring at him, his lips pressed thin.

“Right. Okay. Give me a second, Charlie.”

He gingerly climbs out of bed, and with Cas’ help, hobbles out to the living room. He grabs up the remote and turns on the TV, only to see a picture of his own face plastered across the screen. It’s blurry and pixelated, zoomed in too far for the quality of the source, but it’s still fairly easy to see that it’s _him_.

The air leaves his lungs in a rush. “Shit.”

“ _Shit_ is a bit of an understatement, Dean!” Charlie screeches. “What the hell happened! You ditched me as a sidekick because you were worried about the Devil, and then you went and did _that_? And how did you find the Angel! I thought he was dead. Why was he with you? Why was he wearing your _helmet_? And the way he just picked you up after you took down the Devil, what the _fuck_ am I missing.”

Dean hears Charlie, but he isn’t giving her his full attention. He can’t. Not while the news is now playing a reel of the entire fight at the stadium, filmed from what looks like a camera that was originally broadcasting the soccer game. The news now has the footage, clearly, but as Dean realizes, if that camera never stopped rolling after the Devil first arrived…

The whole thing might have been broadcasted live.

Or, really, it probably _was_ broadcasted live. Dean had seen the civilians with personal cameras hanging around, and that was bad enough, but given the excited way the news is buzzing about all of it, the audience must have been bigger than he ever would have anticipated.

Dean flips through a few more news stations. The Angel and the Hunter versus the Devil is the biggest story across all of the local channels, as well as CNN. It seems to be all that anyone is talking about. There are people who are deliriously happy to see that the Angel made a reappearance, people who are surprised by the Hunter’s display both against the Devil and in getting the civilians to safety, and then there are people who are happier than anything else just to see that the Devil was stopped before he could cause mass damage. Since the incident is being picked apart on a national stage, there’s an overwhelming number of perspectives being shared.

Charlie is still talking into his ear. “—I can do what I can to scrub this, but Dean, you have to know that people are going to recognize you, or want to find you. Even I won’t be able to take the heat off of you completely. Maybe don’t go out for a while, okay? Keep your head down until this starts to blow over.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, though he still isn’t quite focused. “Yeah, I… okay. I gotta go, Charlie. I’ll call you later.”

“Yeah, you _better_ ,” she snipes, and Dean ends the call before she can give him any more shit than that.

Cas leans in against his side, the couch cushion dipping as their weights combine over the worn springs. “Dean? Are you… alright?”

“This, uh…” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand down his face, then gives Cas a thin smile. “Feels a bit surreal, not gonna lie. Guess this is probably how you felt all those times I obsessed over a new Angel clip, though, huh?”

Cas chuckles. “A bit. My identity is still secure, however, which is at least…”

He trails off, but Dean still shakes his head. He can still see where Cas’ mind is going. “At the end of the day, I’m just some guy who made a fancy suit. It’s better that people know who I am than letting them know who _you_ are. I’d rather people know that I know tech than that you’re... “

“A genetically mutated freak?” Cas fills in.

It’s so blunt that Dean has to laugh. “Yeah. That.”

Although he still doesn’t look convinced, Cas eases enough that Dean feels confident that he won’t beat himself up over it too much. And for now, that’s good enough for him.

Cas pointedly glances toward the TV again, where some news anchor or another is saying over another blurred still of Dean’s face, “But the question still remains: who is this vigilante?”

Cas says, unknowingly echoing Charlie’s sentiment, “You know, people are going to try to find you. Other people like Lucifer, who will want to do you harm. You’re going to be a target.”

Dean doesn’t doubt that for a second. More people than Charlie are going to recognize him, and even when he eventually goes back out as the Hunter, mask and all—because he most definitely will—there are going to be more eyes on him than ever before.

He’s fought alongside the Angel, he took out the Devil while the entire city watched—he isn’t some rookie, Angel replacement anymore. He’s the real deal.

And while that’s bound to be a pain in the ass… it’s also pretty damn cool.

There’s another pretty significant bonus to the way things have progressed, too. He turns off the news, unconcerned with anything else they may decide to say, and turns to face Cas fully.

“On the bright side, I’ve gotten used to being shot at. And, better yet—” Dean shoots Cas a grin, then leans in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “As long as I’ve got an Angel on my shoulder, I think I’m going to be fine.”

Cas beams at him, and for a brief moment, Dean swears he sees lightning flash in his eyes. “Yes. You certainly will be. I believe I owe you one, anyway.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/)!


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